


The Count of Montecristo: A Torchwood Regency Romance

by Emma



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:03:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma/pseuds/Emma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I decided to write for reel_Torchwood, there was no question which movie I would choose. I read <i>The Count of Monte Cristo</i> many, many years ago, and the tale of injustice and revenge became one of my favorites.</p>
<p>Anyway. When trying to recreate the story, a rather large obstacle appeared almost immediately. I know next to nothing about the Napoleonic Wars from the French point of view. I did know considerably more about them from the British; the time is of particular interest to me, both as a historian and as a lover of Regency romances.</p>
<p>Now, many of you know my brain works in mysterious ways. It went like this:Monte Cristo – British setting – Napoleonic Wars – Regency – Regency romance – Torchwood Regency romance. Usually about right now a sane person would have stopped me in my tracks. Unfortunately, my usual idea-bouncer, beth_mccombs, is about as crazed as I am when the wind blows north-northwest. Her only answer when I floated this piece of insanity past her? Cool!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

          It was past nine in the evening when Lieutenant the Honourable Ianto Jones made his way into the card rooms at White’s. If truth be told, he had no interest in being there; he did not gamble, preferring to leave the vice to his father. But it was the place to meet both friends and possible patrons. More than one career had been made or broken over whist at White’s. Considering the way his father was running through the family’s blunt, his inheritance expectations became more dismal every year. It was more than likely that he would have to support himself, and, unlike many of his peers, he preferred honest work to a marriage of convenience.

          He looked around. Yes, there was his father with Lord Sefton, Lord Strafford, and Mr. Lambton. Commodore the Right Honourable Viscount Vennington already looked a little flushed, and his mouth was set in that pugnacious pucker that all his children had learned to mistrust. Either he would win and go home boisterously happy or he would lose heavily – he never lost any other way – and go home in a black rage and take it out on the servants.

          “Ianto!” Over here!”

          Ianto dismissed his father from his thoughts and turned towards the other end of the room. Lord Robert Despenser was waving to him from the midst of a group of younger men seated around a corner table. He had known Robert since they were both in the cradle and counted him as a good friend. Robert had spent the war in some mysterious office in Whitehall, and whatever he had done was still considered highly sensitive.

          “I’m very glad you could join us,” Robert said, “as you might be able to shed some light on our latest mystery.”

          “Highly doubtful. I’ve spent the last two weeks carrying and fetching from one end of Whitehall to the next. I know of nothing happening in London outside of that.” Ianto accepted a glass of brandy. “What is the latest mystery?”

          “Not what. Who. The newest sensation. Monte Cristo. There are rumours he was at Waterloo.”

          “Ah. The Conde.’ He set the brandy glass down untouched. “I wouldn’t know. Sorry. Wrong end of the field altogether.”

          “That’s right, you are with the King’s Dragoons, aren’t you?” Beauforte signalled to the butler for more drinks. “Really, curiosity is rampant in London. I wonder who would know?”

          Ianto managed to hide his distaste. Charles Beauforte, the son and heir of a Marquess, had been spared the field of battle while two of his brothers and several cousins died in the Peninsula. He swanned around London with a coterie of empty-headed young men whose only ambition in life was to learn to tie a proper Trone d'Amour.

          “Here’s the one who can probably satisfy your curiosity, Beauforte.” Robert Despenser waved at another man who had just entered the room. “Stanley is in Lord Castlereagh’s staff.”

          Ianto nodded at the newcomer. The Honourable Stanley Carstairs was another of those cradle friends. Their mothers were bosom-bows, having grown up in the Despenser household, together with the Earl’s twin daughters. The Despenser girls, as the four of them had been known, had taken the ton by storm and made exceedingly good marriages. By ton standards, anyway. Good bloodlines, proper social status, and a suitable fortune made everything right with the aristocratic world.

          “Carstairs, do come and tell us something about this mysterious Monte Cristo.” Beauforte gestured with his brandy glass. “Everyone in town is dying to know.”

          Stanley grinned at them. “I find myself in an unusual position, gentlemen. I actually have some information that will raise my stock with the ton. And permission to repeat it.”

          “All right, give over, Stanley.” Ianto thumped his friend on the shoulder. “What can you tell us about the mystery man?”

          “His name is Edmundo Carlos Diego Dantes y Fernandez de Andrade. Both the Dantes and the Fernandez de Andrade are grandees of Spain several times over. The family has extensive business interests both in the Spanish mainland and in Northern Africa.” He looked at his hand piteously. “Must I lecture without a drink in hand? Is this my companions’ hospitality?”

          “Here, you can have this one,” Ianto pointed at the drink by his side. “But keep talking!”

          Stanley sipped the brandy. “Much better. Let’s see, where was I? Ah, yes. The family seat is in the mountains of Asturias, between Oviedo and the sea. The Asturians say the Dantes are half-mountain goat, and I am reliably informed that one very cool-headed gentleman of our acquaintance refused to make the final climb to the Castillo.”

          “He owns a castle, then?” Beauforte asked.

          “Don’t be silly, Beauforte. He owns two. The Castillo Duradero in Asturias and the Alcazar de Monte de Cristo in an island off the coast of Morocco. He owns the whole island, actually. That’s where the title comes from. The Fernandez de Andrade negotiated a treaty on behalf of Castile with the Maghreb rulers back in the thirteen hundreds. About the only one that ever satisfied both sides. Both kings were very grateful.”

          “So he's wealthy, then?”

          Stanley leaned forward and spoke very softly. “Twice as wealthy as Croesus. There are some wild tales. One of the Spanish undersecretaries at the conference told me that the Asturians whisper that the Dantes are sorcerers, able to turn rocks into gold. Another legend says that a Maghreb prince tried to seduce a countess of Monte Cristo. He was so impressed to find the lady unshakably virtuous that he gave the count her weight in pearls.”

          Robert Despenser laughed. “Nice tales to hide reality behind.”

          “Perhaps. All I know is that he is immensely wealthy.”

          “That's all well and good,” Beauforte snapped his fingers. “But I'm more interested in the mysterious lady he travels with. Is she his mistress? What does she look like?”

          “Nobody knows what she looks like,” Stanley said. “She is always veiled in public and she does not attend social functions.”

          “Perhaps she cannot,” Robert speculated. “The ton would not accept just anyone. Monte Cristo could well be ruined socially if he tried to foist his mistress on society.”

           Ianto snorted. “With his wealth and influence? We would find a way to turn a blind eye. We have done so with bigger scandals.”

           “Probably,” Stanley agreed. “The Duke swears by him. The King of Spain would make him a duke if Monte Cristo would just accept it, which he will not...”

          “Will not accept a dukedom?” Beauforte was outraged.

           “No. He says being Monte Cristo is enough.”

           “Good Lord.” Robert said. “I'd like to make the acquaintance of a man cavalier enough to turn down a dukedom.”

           “That should be easy. All the top drawer will be at Lady Bathurst's ball tonight. Monte Cristo has promised to attend.”

           “I was planning to give it a miss,” Beauforte set down his glass. “M'mother has decided to get me leg-shackled to one of Delamere chits and they will all be thrown at my head one at a time the moment I step into the ballroom. But if the conde is going to be there, I think I'll brave the battle. Who is with me?”

           “I'll go,” Robert said. “I want to check the field. My great-uncle Hartington has hinted once or twice that he would prefer to leave his property to a married man. Since I have two brothers before me in the inheritance line, I must make all efforts to fix my uncle's affection. Ianto, Stanley, are you coming?”

          Ianto was about to agree when he caught sight of Stanley's face. He knew that look; Stanley had perfected it in order to survive his virago of a grandmother. It was a blank openness that gave those not familiar with it the impression that nothing of consequence went on in the brain behind those eyes. Ianto shifted slightly to meet Robert's eyes. His quick jerk of the chin towards Charles Beauforte told him Robert was taking Charles and his cronies away on purpose but would expect a report soon.

          “I think I'll stay for a while. Shall we meet later on?”

          “Try to get there before the second waltz, at least.” Robert grumbled good-naturedly. “The more of us present the less likely I will have to deal with one of the Delamere girls myself.”

          Ianto waited until they had all left the card room and then turned to Stanley. “What else?” he asked, using the Welsh they had learned in childhood. “And don't try the look on me. I knew your grandmother, remember?”

          Stanley nodded. “Fair enough. I ran into someone else while we were in Aachen.”

          “Who?”

          “Do you remember Sir Owain Davidson?”

          “From Stretton Heath? Yes, of course. Wasn't he the one who was murdered?”

          “Yes. His wife and son were reduced to penury for a time. My mother was very concerned and tried to speak to my father about it but was severely rebuffed. Lady Davidson supported herself by taking in sewing and embroidery for the local ladies while her son, I suppose Sir Andrew by then, took lessons from the local vicar in the morning and worked at Lord Uffington's stables in the afternoon. Then, about a year later, they disappeared.”

          “I remember now. My mother used to send them small presents through our cook. Mollie's sister was Lady Davidson's maid. And you ran into them again?”

          “Into Andrew.” Stanley shook his head. “Or at least I think I did. Monte Cristo's man of business, Mr. Stratton. John Stratton. With an _a_. We ran into each other several times during the conference. Finally I asked him point-blank and he told me I was mistaken. He says his family hails from Dublin and have been in service to the Monte Cristos for generations. But I don't think so.”

          “The Davidsons were intimate friends of Lord Whithorn.”

          “Yes.”

          Ianto suddenly felt chilled. Lieutenant Jack Harkness, the son of Cameron Harkness, viscount Whithorn and Glasserton, had been convicted of betraying some of the battle plans for the Battle of the Nile to the French. The viscount had stated publicly that his son was innocent and swore that he would clear his name. Less than three months later Lord Whithorn had committed suicide and his best friend Sir Owain had been murdered by footpads while on his way home one late night The Whithorn and Glasserton estate had devolved to the next heir, Lord Whithorn's brother Thomas.

          A few months after the tragedy Jack's fiancée, Lady Gwendolyn Cooper, had married the new Lord Whithorn. She was one of the tightly knit group of friends that had gathered around the Despenser girls. Their son, Cameron, was the youngest of the new generation and someone both Ianto and Stanley looked upon as a younger brother. And then there was pretty, sweet, invalid Marianna.

          “Ianto...”

          “I know. My grandfather Leominster always felt there was something wrong with the whole situation.”

          “Maybe we're seeing too much into it. Maybe Sir Andrew simply changed his name in order to start a new life!”

          “Do you really believe that? What would you do if someone had murdered your father, turned your mother into a servant, and stolen your birthright?”

          Stanley sighed. “Do you realize what we're thinking, Ianto? It was my father who purchased the Davidson property in Stretton Heath, and lord Whithorn bought the shooting box in Scotland.”

          “That might have been simply a matter of opportunity. But in any case, we need to find a way to protect our families. The question mark here is Monte Cristo. Is Sir Andrew using him to obtain entree into the ton or is the Conde actively helping him? I think we need to attend Lady Bathurst's ball.”

          He started to stand up, but Stanley restrained him. “No, we don’t. Major MacLeod was in to see Lord Castlereagh earlier on and he mentioned Monte Cristo was engaged to come here to play cards tonight after his appearance at the ball. Chattisham and Lord Bowyer will be joining them.”

          “I see.” Ianto sat back and considered the situation. “Well, then. Let’s order some supper and wait.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

          Lady Bathurst’s ballroom had been transformed into a winter paradise. White damask swagged the windows. Two chandeliers full of white candles lit the space, aided by sterling silver candelabra on every side table. Massive bouquets of white hothouse flowers scented the air. It was the last formal ball of the Little Season, and her ladyship had set out to make a triumphant exit. If the massed crowds were anything to go by, she had succeeded beyond her wildest expectations.

          “It’s Monte Cristo, of course,” Lady Ogilvy whispered to Lady Whithorn. “Everyone is agog, my dear. London buzzes madly.”

          Gwendolyn Harkness, Viscountess Whithorn and Glasserton – Gwen to friends and family, none of whom happened to be at this fashionable entertainment – sipped her ratafia as she looked around the room. Everyone who was anyone in the ton was present. Princess Esterhazy and Lady Castlereagh sat in splendor at the far end, surrounded by the lesser grandes dames like queens among their entourage. Even gentlemen that would usually put in a token appearance much later were standing around obviously waiting.

          “It is all very thrilling” Lady Alicia Markham said. “I wonder if he will bring his companion.”

          Lady Whithorn smiled at her flighty young friend. “Companion?”

          “Yes, you have just come to Town, haven’t you? Well, my dear,” Lady Alicia lowered her voice. “He travels with a veiled woman. Mrs. Allingham told me yesterday when we met at the modiste that Lady de Burgh told her in confidence that the woman is his wife, who was disfigured by some African illness.”

           “Pish-tosh,” Caroline Eversleigh, Dowager Countess of Alford, snorted. “Edith de Burgh is as bacon-brained now as she was when we were seventeen. The lady is not a relative at all, but she is under his protection. His ward, I believe. Alford tells me she lives in almost total seclusion. When she does appear in public she is accompanied by a giant of a man who acts as bodyguard and footman.”

          This intelligence was accepted by the other ladies without question. Lady Eversleigh’s son, the Earl of Alford, had been aide-de-camp to the Duke of Wellington and therefore in a prime position to know.

          “Is it true,” asked Lady Vennington, “that the Count caned a young officer for trying to sneak a peek at her?”

          “Indeed he did, and well done, I say.” Lady Alford thumped her own cane on the floor. “Impertinent young rake made a bet that he would kiss the lady’s hand in her own garden. Tried to climb the wall in the small hours of the morning. Alford says he could not sit on a horse for a week afterwards.”

          “But surely,” Lady Alicia said in horrified tones, “one cannot cane a gentleman!”

          “Can one not, by God!” retorted Lady Alford. “The name was never revealed, of course. Wellington was ready to cashier him, but Monte Cristo asked the Duke not to ruin the young man’s career. Told him that the foolishness of extreme youth should not be allowed to blight the possibility of a wise adulthood.”

          “He sounds kind,” Gwen said.

          “Perhaps,” said Lady Alford. “But he is very clever indeed in any case. Both Wellington and the young man’s father are in his debt now. Whether Monte Cristo will collect remains to be seen. Of course, there might be nothing he wants. He is immensely wealthy and powerful, and has business interests both in Europe and in North Africa.”

          “He is said to be very handsome,” Lady Alicia. “And a marvelous lover.”

          “Many things seem to be said about this gentleman,” Gwen set down her glass. “But very little seems to be known.”

          “Only that he is wealthy, titled, and handsome.” Lady Alford snorted. “And that, my dear, will be enough of many of the mamas with daughters to settle. He will be hunted by every matchmaker in London…”

          A stirring in the crowd caught their attention. Although the receiving formalities were long over, the ladies noticed their hostess hurrying towards the door, where her butler stood, the perfectly impassive look in his face belied by his triumphant demeanor. Standing beside him was a gentleman, impeccably attired in the most severe black and white, surrounded by a number of high-ranking officers. As Lady Bathurst reached the door, the butler stepped forward and announced the new guest in tones that managed to reach every last corner of the room.

          “The Count of Monte Cristo.”

          The announcement, though expected, did not fail to set the crowd to buzzing. The gentleman in question made a perfect bow over Lady Bathurst’s hand and was heard to apologize for his lateness. Such courtesy was very well received among ladies used to the appearance of husbands and sons as late as it was socially acceptable, or their early disappearance into clubs and other less decorous places. Young girls looking for husbands and experienced women seeking a new diversion catalogued his flawless good looks, the brilliance of his blue eyes, and the powerful elegance of his body. Young bucks admired his sartorial taste and wondered about his tailor. Older men and women, powerful in their spheres, calculated the advantages of his friendship and influence.

          Gwen stood rooted to the spot. There was something about the man currently making his way to the dance floor in the arm of his hostess that brought back powerful memories. Perhaps it was the blue eyes, or the dazzling smile; perhaps it was the way he seemed to draw everyone’s attention to himself without even being aware that he did so. Twenty years had passed, and she had learned to make peace with her memories, but they were still deeply embedded and ready to be summoned by an unexpected word or a sudden glimpse. Now, at this very moment, standing in an elegant ballroom in the home of one of the ton’s most formidable hostesses, she was transported back to the sea wall on the Isle of Whithorn.

          Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she studied him. Under the easy, charming grin, his face was hard, all carved planes and angles. The smile almost never reached his eyes; they were cold as sapphires, and when they looked at someone they weighed them and often found them wanting. She shivered as the eyes rested on her briefly, but managed to keep her countenance and returned the look impassively. No, he was nothing like Jack, and yet there was something in his voice, in his manner, that spoke of the boy she had loved.

          “Gwendolyn? Gwendolyn!”

          Lady Alford’s voice brought her back to the present. “I’m sorry, Lady Alford. I was distracted for a moment.”

          “You looked like the world was falling in on you,” the redoubtable lady waved her towards an empty chaise. “No, don’t worry. Nobody noticed. You have a talent for keeping your emotions under control.”

          “ _You_ noticed.”

          “I’m an old woman, my dear, and I’ve forgotten more difficulties and troubles than you have yet encountered. I learned the lesson in the same school you did.” Their eyes met and complete although unvoiced understanding passed between them. “It must be hard on you, being in the same room with someone who looks like… him.”

          Gwen turned eagerly to the older woman. “Then I am not merely deceiving myself. He does look like…”

          “Oh yes, my dear, no doubt. I was one of his mother’s bosom-bows and I saw him grow up. He used to call me Aunt Caroline.” She sat down with a sigh. “I will go to my grave believing there was a great miscarriage of justice somewhere. No Harkness was ever a traitor. Hot-headed, temperamental, and in some cases unprincipled and immoral, but never traitors.”

          Gwen blinked back tears. “Thank you.”

          They sat in companionable silence, watching the haut ton parade. More people were arriving. The news of Monte Cristo’s appearance must have made the rounds of the clubs. Some people were slinking in through the French door leading to the garden, a sure sign they had not been invited but could not resist satisfying their curiosity. Gwen frowned to see Lord Robert Despenser arrive with Charles Beauforte and his coterie, but relaxed when he gracefully parted from them and escorted Lady Rhiannon Jones to the dance floor for the cotillion.

          “That would be a most felicitous match,” Lady Alford said, following Gwen’s eyes to the couple. “Alford tells me young Despenser is one of the up and comers at Whitehall, tipped heavily for Parliament and then the Ministry. Lady Rhiannon is perfectly trained to take her place at his side and manage his household. Her father is not quite _comme il faut_ but the lineage is impeccable and those brothers of hers are all a mother would wish.”

          “Perhaps, but I believe that Stanley Carstairs will take the prize. They have been in each other’s pockets since childhood.”

          “Another excellent match. You are a friend of both their mothers?”

          “We grew up together.”

          She turned to follow the young couple’s progress across the dance floor. Yes, whether with Robert or Stanley, Rhiannon would do very well. She would have real affection and many interests in common. It was more than many couples in their circle ever had.

          “Compose yourself,” Lady Alford whispered. “Lady Bathurst is bringing the Count in this direction.”

          Gwen schooled her face into the social mask of a lady of the haut ton. By the time Lady Bathurst and her companion reached the chaise, she was fully in control of her emotions. At least, she hoped she was.

          “My lord, may I present Caroline, Lady Alford, and Gwendolyn, Viscountess Whithorn and Glasserton? Lady Alford, Lady Whithorn, the Count of Monte Cristo.”

          The Count bowed over the older lady's hand. “Lady Alford. I believe I met your son in Aachen. He speaks highly of your political acumen. Perhaps you can guide me through the maze I'm about to enter.”

          Pleased, she rapped his knuckles gently. “Flatterer. Indeed, perhaps I shall take you in hand. It might be amusing.”

          He gave her a cheeky grin, then turned to Gwendolyn. “Lady Whithorn.”

          Having him close revived all her earlier agitation. He wasn't Jack, she knew he wasn't; Vennington – in those days Lieutenant-Commander Jones – had seen Jack's body in Cairo. And yet, everything about this man spoke to her about Jack. The response he evoked in her was one she had thought long extinct in her. But she also knew it would not do to reveal any emotion at all. There were many in the room that would remember the old scandal, and any outward appearance of distress or worse, interest, would set tongues to wagging.

          She curtseyed. “My lord.”

          “Forgive the impertinence, but you are Welsh, are you not?”

          “Does it show?”

          He smiled. “Only a little. My father had a Welsh friend when I was growing up. There's something about the way English sounds in a Welsh tongue that is hard to forget.”

          The answer sent a frisson of sheer terror through her. Jack's father's best friend had been Sir Owain Davidson. The Davidsons were, like her own family, Marcher lords whose ancestors had married into Welsh royalty and aristocracy.

          “I did not realize your family had British contacts,” she said, and was proud that she managed to sound only mildly interested. “The gossips say your family's business interests are in Europe and Africa.”

          “Most of them are,” he agreed. “But years ago my grandfather made the acquaintance of Mr. Rhodri Williams, from Cardiff.”

          “Williams and Mansfield?”

          “Indeed. They became business associates and also friends. The Williams family would visit during the summer. I practiced my English and even picked up a smattering of Welsh.” He gave her a quizzical look. “You look surprised.”

          “It is merely that in Britain such a friendship would have been impossible.” She grimaced. “It would be thought most scandalous to befriend someone from the merchant class.”

          He spoke with the calm certainty of a man with centuries of power behind him. “Monte Cristos please themselves.”

          She gripped her reticule with suddenly nerveless fingers. The Harkness battle motto, from the old days of the Scottish Border wars, had been _as it pleases me._ “Is that your family motto?” She whispered.

          He laughed merrily. “Actually, the family motto is even more arrogant. _Vou atopar un camiño ou vou facer un._ ” At her puzzled look, he translated. “I shall find a way or I shall make one. Its Old Galician.” He bowed at her. “I am afraid I must leave. I have yet another obligation tonight. Perhaps we shall see each other again, Lady Whithorn. Lady Alford.”

          Another bow and he was gone. The two ladies watched him depart with similar frowns on their faces and then turned to each other.

          “Walk warily, Gwendolyn.” Lady Alford whispered. “This Monte Cristo brings a storm in his wake.”


	3. Chapter 3

          As the night went on, the salons at White's became more crowded with gentlemen eager to lose their money. Ianto and Stanley refused all invitations to join other tables and played piquet for fabulous imaginary sums, as they had done as children under the critical eye of Ianto's maternal grandfather, the Earl of Leominster, a gentleman legendary for his consummate skill with the pasteboards. From time to time others stopped by and spirited discussions arose on all sorts of matters, from the latest reports from the Colonies to the newest style of cravats to the latest betrothal. Some of the disagreements became serious enough for the gentlemen to enter them into the betting book. Invited to participate, Ianto and Stanley both demurred gracefully, claiming that on political matters, they would have an advantage, as they were both working at Whitehall, while on social matters, they would have a serious disadvantage as would be expected of two soldiers only recently returned to the capital.

          “You seem to have a inexhaustible font of friends,” Stanley remarked after the fourth such gentleman departed.

          “Acquaintances merely, of the kind one makes in the battlefield.” Ianto dealt the cards. “And we're all much the same. Gentlemen of birth and social standing, but finding it hard to find our footing in this setting after so many years away.”

          “It is difficult, isn't it? We're supposed to slide back into our allotted place, but we're not the same people who went off to the Continent. We don't belong, somehow.”

          “No, we don't. On the other hand...” He stopped. “Monte Cristo is here.”

          “How do you know?”

          “The waiters are all rushing to the entrance.”

          Their table's position allowed them to watch both the entry hall and the door to the larger card room, so they were able to witness the Count's entrance. It was, Ianto thought, more of a royal procession than an entrance. At first all he could see was a wave of elegantly coiffed heads as men bowed or nodded to the newcomer, depending on station; then one of the club's most senior stewards came in, followed by a small group of gentlemen of the highest rank – Sir George Bowyer from the War Office, the Marquess of Chattisham, and Major Sir Ian MacLeod among them – and then, finally, the guest of honour came into view.

          Ianto's heart leaped into his throat.

          Monte Cristo was handsome in the kind of way that made every eye turn to look at him. Ianto was not unaware that his own looks were of a similar sort, and he had made it an art to pass unnoticed. The Count, on the other hand, seemed to revel in the attention, smiling, bowing, and shaking hands. His clothes were the apex of restrained elegance, displaying a long, muscular body. Ianto noticed his hands were huge; a single signet ring, made from a carved sapphire set in gold, adorned his left hand. It looked to be ancient both in workmanship and design. But the face! Ianto studied him as discreetly as he could. The face had him transfixed. The beautiful brilliant blue eyes, the perfectly shaped brows, the delicious lips that curved easily in a smile that seemed to promise all sorts of things...

          Dear God. He hadn't reacted like that to anyone, male or female, in years, but especially not to a man. He thought he had killed and buried those feelings a long time ago. There was no honest place for them in society. He knew several of his peers, married and with children, who kept male lovers on the side; at least one twosome had been together for more than twenty years, while raising families and managing estates. Others spent their nights in bawdy houses that catered to their desires, sinking lower and lower into the stews, prey to blackmail, assault, and disease.

          He wasn't the kind of man who could live either sort of double life, so after a few fumbles while in Oxford, he had tried his best to demolish that part of himself. He found women attractive and could perform satisfactorily in the bedroom with them, so a family was not out of the question. He had always envisioned his future wife to be a woman of his own world, who understood the unspoken rules they all lived by, and who would be at his side as he worked to build his children's inheritance. All he expected was affection, friendship, and fidelity, and those he would return in full.

          But this man brought it all back: the hunger, the desire, the impossible _need._

          “Ianto?” Stanley shook him lightly. “Ianto, are you all right?”

          He collected himself. “Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking of the best way to approach the Count.”

          “Nothing says we need to approach him today.” Stanley said in his commonsensical way. “I heard someone say he was playing whist in the main room. Let's just observe for now.”

          They went into the large room. All of the tables were taken, but it was clear that everyone's attention was fixed on the table near the fireplace, where the count was playing whist with the marquess, Sir George, and Major MacLeod. Luckily some of their own friends had managed to snare a table not too distant. They joined the group, positioning themselves as to see and hear everything that went on at the count's table.

          “No, no, my dear Chattisham,” the count was saying. “I oversee my investments personally. There is an old Spanish saying. _El ojo del amo engorda el caballo_. The owner's eye fattens the horse. Of course, I do have a man of business.” He smiled winningly. “I get bored with the details.”

          “Stratton is his name, right?” Major MacLeod said. “I had conversation with him at Aachen. Young but very sound.”

          That was, Ianto knew from experience, the old soldier's highest praise. If Stratton was really Sir Andrew Davidson – and he trusted Stanley's eyes as much as his own – he had won over one of the shrewdest judges of men in the army.

          “Indeed he is. He comes from a long line of sound men.” Monte Cristo lifted his glass and drank. “John manages all my affairs. He has very good instincts. And of course he gets a percentage of the profits, so that makes him all the sharper.”

          “You give your man of business a percentage of your profits?” Chattisham was astonished. “Is that a common thing in Spain?”

          Monte Cristo shrugged. “It is a family tradition. Many Dantes employees have gone on to run their own businesses. Some have even entered the nobility.”

          “How is that possible?” cried Sir John.

          The count laughed. “After three hundred years, many things are possible, even in Spain.”

          Ianto shivered. The sound of Monte Cristo's laughter made lust stir low in his belly. There was a knowing undertone to it, a secret warmth that seemed to be meant for only one person. He supposed it was part of Monte Cristo's power over people, that sense that he was talking to you, even if you weren't the person being addressed. But it acted on him like a glass of the best aphrodisiac.

          “Well, I'm off,” said Major MacLeod. “Early morning tomorrow. We ride at sunrise. Here, Vennington, you take over. You're good enough to give Monte Cristo a run for his money.”

          Ianto's father stepped up eagerly. Ianto swallowed the words that were fighting to get out. Monte Cristo and the others were playing for large sums; after all, they could afford it. His father couldn't. Ianto had been informed by his brother Alexander that he had spoken privately with their estate agent, and Mr. Craddock had been in despair over his sums. The estate was productive, and by dint of massive economies that he carefully hid from his employer, Craddock had managed to keep it solvent, but at the rate their father spent money, it couldn't stay out of debt for long. They were barely scraping along.

          But it would cause one hell of a scandal if he were to say anything publicly, and he had his mother, brother, and sister to think of. So he stood there, face bland, while his father put what Ianto was sure were the household's quarterly funds into the game. Stanley squeezed his elbow discreetly and jerked his head towards the door, but Ianto shook his own and remained where he was.

          At the table near the fireplace, the game and the conversation went on, and, as conversations among gentlemen of such station were wont to do, it turned again to investments.

          “What kind of investments do you engage in, Monte Cristo?” asked Sir George Bowyer. “I understand you have properties in Africa?”

          “Only a small island,” the count answered with a smile. “Near the coast of Morocco. And a house in Cairo. We Monte Cristos don't tend to accumulate property as you English do. The lands in Asturias and the island are enough. They have been ours for so long, you see.”

          Chattisham nodded. “I understand that. I feel the same about Chattisham Close. So your investments are of the more floating kind, then?”

          Monte Cristo smiled his delight at the Marquess' small joke. “I do own a few ships, yes.”

          “Do you bring anything to London?” Sir George asked. “Or do you concentrate on the Mediterranean?”

          “We do bring things to Britain, but out base port is at Cardiff. My family has a long-standing relationship with Williams and Mansfield in that city.”

          “Solid firm,” Sir George nodded in agreement. “Good solid merchant family, the Williamses. But I thought they traded exclusively with South America.”

          “Indeed. I finance a number of their ships every year in exchange for a share of the profits. In addition, we own two ships in common that deal mainly in South American gemstones.”

          “That is an unusual investment, is it not?” Vennington asked

          “It's simply an extension of our North African investments. The family has had an interest in the gem business there since we acquired the Monte de Cristo.”

          “Especially pearls, eh?” joked Chattisham.

          The count's eyes sparkled merrily. “Indeed. Amazing what you can do with one hundred and twenty pounds of flawless pearls.”

          “Do you have anything at hand at the moment?” Ianto's father asked.

          “There are a few things,” Monte Cristo answered easily. “There always are. Stratton is putting together a consortium for a trip to Canada. Furs, I believe. It's his project more than mine, but I might take a hand. But enough of business. I confess I am always curious about new people. Tell me, Vennington, what should I know about yourself?”

          If asked by anyone else the question would have been supremely impertinent. In Monte Cristo's voice, with those beautiful eyes turned on one as if their owner wanted to be one's best friend, it was accepted by all as a charming conversation opener. Ianto bit his lip hard as he was forced to stand quietly and listen to his father's boasting about his career and his estate.

          “How interesting. And your family? It is my understanding that in Britain it is important that a man in high position should be suitably married.”

          “Indeed.” Vennington's chest puffed with self-satisfaction. “My dear wife is one of Leominster's daughters.” As if coming to the belated realization that Monte Cristo might not be familiar with British titles, he continued, “that is the...”

          “Earl of Leomister, yes. Marcher lord. Knowing the Williams family has given me a basic grounding of the great Welsh titles. And heirs? Surely that is just as important when it comes to people like us.”

          Obviously gratified to be included in the same rank as Monte Cristo, Vennington assented. “Indeed. I have two sons and a daughter. My eldest, Alexander, has recently resigned his commission in the Navy and is learning to manage the estate. My younger, Ianto, is in the King's Dragoons and will probably make his career in government service. His uncle Leominster is very keen on sponsoring him.”

          “Is that the young Lieutenant Ianto Jones who led one of the charges at Mont St. Jean?” At Vennington's puzzlement he continued. “The name, Ianto, so unusual for a British aristocrat. This young lieutenant took over for his captain when the captain fell and led the charge. Wellington was exceedingly pleased.”

          Vennington looked utterly shocked for a moment, then evinced a most unconvincing laugh. “Yes, that was my son.”

          “Someday I would like to meet him,” Monte Cristo said. “There is a certain fellow-feeling between us that were there that day.”

          “Rather good at his new position, too. We in the War Office also have high hopes. Sometimes he is here with Carstairs or Despenser.” Sir George looked around. “Ah, there he is.”

          At Sir George's wave, Ianto stepped forward. He was slightly flushed from suffering the embarrassment of having his past service and prospective career discussed at White's in full hearing of half the ton, but he maintained his usual composure as he bowed to Sir George and then to his father.

          “Monte Cristo, may I present Lieutenant Ianto Jones?” Sir George performed the introduction with a smug smile. “Lieutenant Jones chose to stay on land while his father and brother went to sea. The Navy's loss was our gain.”

          Ianto bowed deeply. “My lord.”

          Monte Cristo extended his hand. “Lieutenant.”

          Sudden panic clutched at Ianto. He would have rather been back in the charnel house of Mont St. Jean than to touch the man, but he could not refuse the extended hand. As their fingers came into contact, Ianto was startled to hear Monte Cristo's sharply indrawn breath. He looked at the Count and found sexual awareness in his brilliant blue eyes, the same awareness that had been gnawing at Ianto since his first glimpse of the man. Monte Cristo's thumb rubbed over the curve of Ianto's wrist as he aimed his devastating smile in the young man's direction. Ianto found himself unable to keep from smiling back.

          Releasing Ianto's hand, Monte Cristo sat back. “Tell me, Lieutenant, do you ride?”

          “I'm a cavalry man, my lord.” Ianto could hear his father's angry hiss at what he would consider impertinence. “It would be an odd thing if I didn't.”

          Monte Cristo laughed. “Perhaps I should be more specific. This morning I was subjected to what I am told is considered _riding_ in the park. If horses could complain, my poor Al Sidi would have raised a storm. Walking a horse while bowing here and there is not my idea of riding, nor is it Al Sidi's. Where can you actually exercise your horse in London?”

          “That kind of riding can be had only outside the city. Although....” he hesitated.

          “Ah. A secret place?”

          “More a secret time, my Lord. I sometimes ride in the Park in the early morning hours. Right after sunrise. One can gallop then, or at least achieve a creditable canter.”  

         “I must try that or Al Sidi will become fat and lazy. Perhaps I shall see you there.”

          Ianto bowed. “It would be a pleasure, my lord.”

          Monte Cristo smiled at him one more time and turned back to his cards, leaving Ianto to wonder if he has actually heard the whispered _it will be._

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

          The Count of Monte Cristo descended from his carriage in front of the townhouse in Grosvenor Street. “Many thanks, Tim. I don't think I'll be needing you tomorrow. Go visit the family. My regards to your wife.”

          The coachman saluted with his whip. “Thank 'ee, my lord.”

          “Don't forget to stop by the kitchen before you go. Good night.”

          “Good night, my lord.”

          The front door opened even before Monte Cristo had a chance to knock. His butler, Draper, bowed deeply as the count entered. The worthy Draper was part of the English staff Stratton had engaged for their stay. All of them were long-time residents of London but either had been born and raised in Wales or traced their ancestry to it. All of them were efficient and closed-mouthed, and did not bat an eye at anything they saw, heard, or were asked to do.

          “The worthy Draper. I have spent an evening, Draper, with some of the most boring people on earth.”

          Draper wisely did not offer an opinion. “Mr. Stratton is still up, my lord. In the study. Shall I bring you some tea?”

          Monte Cristo waved him off. “No, no. Go to bed, my dear Draper. You are usually about before daylight and need your rest. The sherry will do. Oh, and I've sent Tim off to his family tomorrow, so please prepare the usual.”

          Draper nodded. “Yes, my lord. Good night, my lord.”

          Monte Cristo walked down a short corridor, and opened the door at the far end. The room beyond was long and narrow, with high windows looking over the gardens. Originally it had been a lady's sitting room, but Monte Cristo liked the quiet, peaceful atmosphere and had turned it into his study. At one end, there was a gentleman's writing desk, its vast expanse of polished wood furnished with a magnificent desk set in ebony and silver. At the other end, in front of a fireplace with a carved mantel, two large sofas faced each other across a embroidered Japanese carpet. Bookcases lined one of the walls; in the niches between the windows, small side tables held flowers in silver bowls.

          The room was lit only by two many-armed candelabra on the fireplace mantel. They illuminated the man who sat in one of the sofas, a large book in his lap. He was reddish-haired, with a pleasant, unremarkable countenance that concealed, as Monte Cristo knew, one of the cleverest minds he had ever encountered.

          “In or out, Jack,” he said without looking up from the book. “The draft will blow out the candles.”

          “Just admiring the view, Andy.” Jack grinned at the amused snort that greeted his flirtatious comment. “Did you stay up to read or do you have something for me?”

          Andrew Davidson put down the book. “A bit of both. I heard from Doctor Harper. He arrived last night and has taken possession of the townhouse and surgery office in Bermondsey Square. He will be ready to testify when we need him. Also, we got a message from Rhys this morning. He'll be here in a few days. How was your evening?”

          Jack's laugh held no real humour. “I met Aunt Caroline at the Bathurst ball. Gwen was there also. She was shocked, I think.”

          “Did she recognize you?”

          “I don't think so. She was struck the resemblance and it brought back memories.” Jack opened the tantalus disguised as a world globe on a mahogany stand next to the sofa and poured himself a small glass of sherry. “It did for me too.”

          Andy studied his face for a moment, then steered away from the sensitive subject. “And Vennington?”

          “I played cards with him at White’s. He has grown even more pompous and vain, if that is at all possible.” He poured another sherry and handed it to Andy. “And as greedy. He was cheating.”

          “Good Lord. In that setting?” Andy accepted the glass. “If he is discovered... ah. You have your weapon.”

          Jack stretched out on the sofa. “Indeed. I let him win, of course. He will be very lucky when playing with me for the next few days.” He hesitated briefly. “I also meet one of his sons. Ianto.”

          “The Lieutenant.” Andy sipped his sherry. “Sometimes I wonder how such a son comes from such a father.”

          “Yes.” Jack held the glass up to the fire and spun it to catch the light. “He is... impressive.”

          Andy set down his glass. “Are we smitten, my lord?”

          “A little. He looks very good in uniform. Red _is_ his colour.” He sat up, tossing back the sherry. “Don't worry, Andy. I'm not about to be seduced away from our goal by a beautiful young man.”

          “That's not what worries me.” Andy ran his fingers through his hair. “You know I don't have any pity for Vennington, or Carstairs, or your uncle. They destroyed both our lives and by God I want them punished. But people like Lieutenant Jones aren't guilty of anything. He's an excellent soldier and an honourable man. Once his father is exposed, he will be cashiered or, even worse, never trusted again by his superiors. He will not be able to make a suitable marriage...”

          Jack laughed. “If the way that man's pulse fluttered when we shook hands is any indication, he doesn't want marriage.”

          “Maybe not,” Andy says frostily. “But you are deliberately trying to push aside the argument.”

          Jack abandoned his lazy sprawl on the sofa to stand by the fireplace. “What would you have me do, Andy? I am not willing to let those people get away scot free. They took my life. They took yours. They murdered our fathers. Shall we forgive them because we feel sorry for their sons? Shall we tell Toshiko that the man who murdered her father, raped and murdered her mother and sold her into slavery gets away with it?”

          “Of course not!” Andy drew his fingers through his hair. “But surely we can find a way to do it without destroying their families as well.”

          Jack shook his head. “This world visits the troubles and sins of the fathers upon the sons, Andy. You of all people should know that.”

          “Jack...”

          “If you want to save any of them, start thinking of ways to do it, Andy. I've spent too much of my life planning my revenge to give it up.” He set his glass down on the fireplace mantel. “I'm going to bed.”

          “Toshiko said she would wait for you. She's completed the examination of the documents you brought her.”

          “Then I should go up to her.” As he reached the door, he turned back. “Andy... I mean that. Find me a way to save them and I will.”

          He walked out to the entry hall. Draper had left a candle on the hall table for him. He took it and went up the wide stairs. Toshiko's suite was on the second floor, on the opposite end from his. He knocked softly.

          “Come in, Jack.”

          She spoke in Japanese, a habit all three of them had gotten into very early on to keep their words from prying ears. Jack opened the door and went in.

          Unlike most of the ladies' boudoirs he had visited in the course of a hedonistic life, Toshiko's inner sanctum was totally devoid of frills and furbelows. If it hadn't been for the richness of the materials and the exquisite perfection of every item, it would have seen downright monastic. She had once explained to him that her culture emphasized a single perfect piece over a massing of the merely beautiful.

          The sitting room was furnished in tones of deep blue, with occasional touches of white and gold. Blue silk curtains framed both windows, tied back with blue and gold tassels. An antique Italian secretary with cupboard doors and matching chair had been positioned between the windows, flanked by a pair of Venetian gondola lanterns. By the fireplace, a chairback settee with two matching chairs upholstered in blue brocade formed a conversation area; two small tables held gilt Italian urn-form candelabra. On the mantel, a single bowl of pure white porcelain – the only direct reminder of her heritage – held pride of place, its exquisite elegance reflected by the simple gilt overmantel mirror.

          Toshiko sat at the escritoire. As usual when in private she wore Japanese-style garments. The richly embroidered blue and gold kimono with flowing sleeves and wide sash made her look like what she was: her Royal Highness the Lady Hachisuka Toshiko, descendant of one of the most powerful families of Japan. Her hair, tied simply at the nape, flowed down past her waist. The only piece of jewelry she wore was the bracelet of ancient Egyptian scarabs mounted in gold his adoptive father had given her as a birthday present.

          “Do I have soot on my nose or something?” she asked him, noticing his intent stare.

          “No. You are as astonishingly beautiful as ever, darling Tosh.” He grinned when she wrinkled her nose at his cheeky abbreviation of her name. “Andy said you had something for me?”

          “The documents from France. I have been able to decrypt most of them. They show that the spy the French refer to as _l'ecossais_ was active for at least five years before the battle of the Nile.” He started to say something but she stopped him with an upraised hand. “In addition, he passed on several pieces of information that would not have been within the reach of a lowly lieutenant, even if you had been serving.”

          He set down his candlestick, pulled up one of the chairs from the group near the fireplace and sat next to her. “What sort of information?”

          “Once he passed on information about a secret project to build some light, fast ships at one of the shipyards in Liverpool. He even gave them the designs.”

          He gave a low whistle. “Those are Admiralty-level matters. Very few people would have known.”

          “That's what I thought. Another time he gave them the route for the couriers to Gibraltar.”

          “Holy God. Any indication of who it might be?”

          “Nothing I can offer as definite proof. However,” she reached into one of the larger drawers, “I have been looking at the information you gave me about the gentlemen,” in her tongue the words acquired the qualities of an epithet, “who were involved in your case. There's an interesting detail.”

          She pulled a sheaf of papers. “Here.”

          He took the paper and stared down at it. “Carstairs. So?”

          “You have always assumed that Carstairs had been paid to affirm your conviction. Your father certainly thought so.” She steepled her fingers. “And that seems to be confirmed by the fact that after Sir Owain Davidson's death, he purchased the Davidson lands. But there might be another reason. And, I'm sorry to say, one I can understand.”

          He tilted his head in silent question, and she continued. “The Captain Carstairs you served under was Sir Henry's older brother. He was killed in the battle, yes? That made Sir Henry heir to the eldest brother, who died soon after, and Sir Henry took over the estates. Before that, though, Sir Henry worked in the upper echelons of the Admiralty.”

          Jack gawped at her like a fish out of water. “Carstairs was the traitor?”

          She shook her head. “Did you know the Carstairs have a Scottish grandmother? A MacDonald of Skye. Captain Carstairs was very proud of it. Spoke about their Scottish lineage all the time.”

          “I remember. And so he should have. They are very important people, the MacDonalds... Oh.” He came to a stop and stared at Tosh. “You think the traitor was Captain Carstairs.”

          “It fits.” She took back the paper, added it to the others and put them back in the drawer. “According to the reports, Sir Henry was most willing to institute a full review of the incident. Then, three days later, he issues a one-page report affirming Vennington's findings. I think he was confronted with evidence of his brother being the traitor and he chose to protect his family.”

          “I see. That's what you mean when you say you understand it.”

          She closed and locked the escritoire. “He was faced with a choice. Declare you innocent and ruin his family or let everyone think you were guilty. You were supposed to be dead. He wouldn't have an innocent man rotting in prison as a reminder, and your father was elderly and reclusive and everyone was sympathetic towards him. He wouldn't be ostracized or harmed. So he protected his family.”

          “And then came my father's suicide and Sir Owain's murder.” He was suddenly thoughtful. “I wonder how he handled that.”

          “If he's the kind of man we think he might be, very badly.” She stood up. “Come sit by the fire and tell me about your evening.”

          They spoke for a while. When he mentioned Ianto Jones, her lips curved into a smile and she quirked an eyebrow at him, but didn't say anything. After Jack had finished, she gazed into the fire for a while, considering.

          “So the weak spot is Vennington. According to Andy he lives as if he were very wealthy but the estate is barely staying afloat, and that only through the joint efforts of their man of business and Lady Vennington. The oldest son left the Navy to try to repair the family fortunes, but with his father spending the profits and fast as they come in...”

          “Yes.” Jack leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Andy wants to see if there's any way we can rescue them.”

          “We talked about it yesterday. I told him my culture required that all members of the family paid the price. I think I horrified him.” She looked at Jack and he was surprised to see her eyes were full of tears. “Then I went to bed, but could not sleep. I kept thinking about myself. I was twelve when Vennington killed my parents and brought me halfway round the world to sell me into slavery. Because of his actions I am forever barred from my rightful place. I did nothing to earn this punishment yet I was punished.”

          “And so you feel sorry for his children?”

          “I suppose I do.” She shook her head. “My father would be ashamed of me.”

          “Neither of mine would.” He stood up. “Time for sleep, Toshiko. We'll discuss this in more detail tomorrow.”  

          “I still have one more document to look at. Maybe we'll find more...”

          He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “Bed, Tosh. You need your rest and so do I.”

          He left her room. His own was at the far end of the corridor. As he opened his door, his valet, Mario, jumped up from his doze on the chaise near the window. “Señor Edmundo...”

          “Mario, why do you insist on staying up?” Jack reproved him gently in Mario's native Asturian. “I can change my own clothes.”

          “Impossible. Every time I allow you to, I end up throwing away your cravats. Come. It will only take a minute.”

          Jack allowed himself to be undressed and bundled into a dressing gown. While he was tending to his evening ablutions, Mario pulled back the counterpane and warmed the bed. Once finished he averted his gaze as Jack dropped the dressing gown and slid into bed. Mario snuffed all the candles except his own.

          “Sleep well, sir,” Mario said as he closed the door behind him. “Good dreams.”

          Jack, his drowsy mind already filling up with visions of a young man in Dragoon red, answered only with a chuckle.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

          Ianto turned down Rotten Row just as the sun started to break through the early morning clouds. He cast an experienced eye at the sky; in spite of the temporary sunshine it was going to be a cold, dismal day. On the other hand, this kind of weather would keep away all the casual riders who wanted to be seen riding rather than to actually ride.

          The Row was deserted at this early hour. He set his horse to cantering. He missed the long rides across his grandfather's fields, following the banks of the Arrow, then back by way of one or another of the small villages in the area, stopping for a hot pastry in the morning or a mug of ale in the afternoon, to arrive back at the castle in time for tea. He hadn't been back in a few years, except for a few short visits that had only whetted his appetite. The last time he had visited he had heard Sir Alan Fitzhugh mention that he was thinking of putting the property outside Brierley for sale. He had always loved the snug little house with its circular drive flanked by flower beds and its fields streaming down to the river. He dreamed of a place like that for himself, where his hand would be on the reins, and he could watch his crops and his children flourish.

          The sound of hooves on gravel made him look over his shoulder. One look and Ianto knew who it was. The magnificent Arabian gray with its heavily red-speckled shoulders was the talk of all the riding circles. After much friendly questioning in the establishments were grooms gathered, Monte Cristo's groom, Pedro, a sharp-tongued Spaniard who spoke English with a heavy accent, unbent enough to inform his fellows that the horse had been a gift from a Bedouin chieftain, and that its lineage could be traced to the earliest Hamdani mares. When someone remarked on his lordship's consummate skill as a rider, Pedro complacently replied that Monte Cristos could ride, sail, and climb mountains from the womb.

          Watching the count ride towards him now, Ianto could well believe it. Man and animal moved together with an easy authority and grace that made the most experienced whips turn green with envy. Ianto knew himself to be an expert rider, but he was aware that he could never equal that effortless unity.

          He wondered if Monte Cristo had come looking for him, and then chastised himself for his naiveté. Of course he had. Men like Monte Cristo did not give up until they had gotten what they wanted, and he had given Ianto every indication that he wanted him. It was all done very discreetly; even the most censorious could not have detected the smallest whiff of impropriety. But Ianto had no doubt that he was being hunted.

          Maybe it was time he gave the Count a taste of his own medicine.

          He waited until the Monte Cristo pulled up next to him. “My lord Count.”

          “Ianto! So formal, and nothing but the sparrows to hear our conversation.”

          Ianto bowed. “Very well, Edmund it is, if only in places like this.”

          “That's better.” Monte Cristo's smile made Ianto. “Shall we ride?”

          “I have a better idea. Come this way.”

          He left the track and rode towards a stand of oaks that screened a small section of the park. “I discovered this last winter. Scots heather, Christmas roses, cyclamens.”

          “A winter garden. I remember...”

          Ianto looked at him. “You remember?”

          “Reading about it. In the Asturian mountains it's too cold for winter flowers other than in the hothouses. And in the Monte de Cristo it's almost always summer.”

          Something about the answer did not sound quite true to Ianto. Monte Cristo's eyes had gone soft and distant, as if reliving a memory. He studied the handsome face. There were moments when he thought there was something familiar in that face; some trick of light on bone structure that made him think he had seen the Count before, someplace, a long time ago. But those instances were few. Most of the time what he felt when he looked at Monte Cristo was desire.

          He dismounted. Monte Cristo followed. They stood among the flowers, looking at each other, saying nothing. Ianto raised one hand to the Count's face and traced the curve of his lips. Monte Cristo stood still, allowing the caress, but his eyes were full of invitation. Finally Ianto stepped a little closer and replaced his fingers with his lips.

          Jack felt the pressure of Ianto's mouth against his, the insistent caress of Ianto's tongue as it demanded entrance. He parted his lips and teased it with his own, luring it into a deeper exploration. The sweet hesitancy told him Ianto was inexperienced in these matters. Skillfully, he set out to capture the lead, to give Ianto a glimpse of what could be between them, to offer him a taste of the illicit sensual pleasures they could enjoy.

          He wrapped his arm around Ianto's waist and pulled him even closer. Ianto's right hand, still holding the reins, landed on his shoulder, while the other grasped the back of Jack's neck. There was no hesitancy now; Jack could feel Ianto's heartbeat stutter and then speed up. Mouths melded, tongues tangled in a passionate dance. It was wild, and untamed, and for the first time in his life, a little frightening. Ianto Jones had gotten under his skin in less than a week.

          He hadn't intended for it to happen. Not here, not now. It would never come to anything. In a few weeks Ianto's father would be in prison and his family ruined, and Jack would stand responsible. He couldn't bear to have Ianto think that this was part of Jack's plan, and that's exactly what would happen if he didn't stop.

          Reluctantly, he freed his lips. “We...can't.”

          “You have been hunting me for a week and now you decide that it's too much trouble?”

          “It's not that.”

          Ianto stepped back, his face shutting down into its usual blank expression, and then turned away. “Very well.”

          “Ianto. Please. You have become very important to me in a ridiculously short time. But there are things happening that I won't stop, not even for you.” He placed a hand on Ianto's back. “I'm sorry.”

          “Does it have anything to do with Andrew Davidson?” Jack's hand dropped as if he had been burned. “Stanley thinks your man of business, John Stratton, is really Andrew Davidson, Sir Owain Davidson's son.”

          “What made him think so?”

          Ianto laughed bitterly. “The Welsh aristocracy is very small. We all know each other. Stanley and I are more or less the same age as Andy, and we met him several times at house parties. That red hair of his... impossible to forget.”

          “From things your father has said, he doesn't have much to do with your mother's people.”

          “He hates them, but he needed my grandfather's money and backing, so he never tried to stop my mother from visiting her family or sending us there for extended visits. Alexander, Rhiannon, and I spent as much time at Ivington Castle as we did at home. And we certainly have always considered ourselves part of Welsh society.”

          “Then why didn't that society tried to help?” Jack asked. “The Davidsons were desperate!”

          “We were curious about it too, so Stanley wrote to his mother. He got an answer yesterday. After Sir Owain's murder some very odd things happened very quickly. Debtors showed up and seized the property. They refused any form of settlement. Some people representing the government tried to seize the funds also, but they were blocked by the Davidson's steward. Two days later he was accused of malfeasance by the Crown and all his personal property and funds seized. Sir Owain's will disappeared, and with it the provisions for Lady Davidson's jointure. Everything took place within a week. Of course, if my grandfather had been alive, none of it would have happened.”

          “What do you mean?”

          “My grandfather would never have tolerated the seizure and sale of the Davidsons property. Even Prinny feared Leominster. But my grandfather died suddenly. The next in line, my uncle Dillon, was overseeing the family's investments in America. By the time he got back, the Davidsons had disappeared.”

          Jack shook his head as if to clear it. “And later?”

          “Aunt Alice says she, my mother, and Aunt Gwen tried to get our fathers to do something but they refused. Aunt Alice got in touch with the Reverend Robertson, her father's chaplain, and he got in touch with the chaplain at Rowton and it was he who found the cottage for them. Mother used to send them packages of food and other necessities through her cook, who is the sister of Lady Davidson's maid.”

          “Ianto, could your grandfather's death have been ...” he hesitated, then started again. “How did your grandfather die?”

          Ianto, foot on the stirrup, looked at him sharply. “He wasn't murdered, if that's what you think. Damn fool man went hunting. At eighty. Horse caught a foot on some rocks and they both went tumbling down a ravine. There were witnesses.”

          He mounted his horse and looked down at Jack. “I still don't know exactly what role you play in all this. I don't know why you and Sir Andrew think my family was involved in what happened to his. I do know that I will do everything I can to protect my mother, my sister, and my brother.”

          “And your father?” Jack said softly. “I notice you don't mention him.”

          Ianto did not answer. He nudged his horse around and trotted back towards the Row. Soon he heard the sound of Monte Cristo's horse behind him. His mind was racing. It was his father. His father was involved in whatever had happened to the Davidsons.

          Although he wanted to dismiss the possibility, Ianto couldn't. If a man's character was reflected in his treatment of those close to him, his father was an overbearing, unprincipled despot who enjoyed exercising power over others. And then there was the money. His father was perennially short of blunt, and Ianto suspected he was not above underhanded dealings to get it. If he had seen the possibility of a windfall... but how? His father had seldom visited Ivington Abbey after his wedding to Ianto's mother. He had no contacts with the Davidsons at all. How could he benefit?

          He would have to find out. Rhiannon was returning home the next day; he would send Alexander a letter with her. Perhaps there was something in the account books. In the meantime, he needed to stay well away from Monte Cristo. There was too much at stake to continue the game of seduction.

          He re-entered the Row, Monte Cristo alongside him, and they cantered towards the exit in silence. As they neared it, they saw a man riding towards them. He was impeccably turned out, but there was a kind of ebullience in the way he rode that revealed his youth.

          “Ianto!”

          “Cameron. What brings you to town?”

          “Father insisted I accompany him. You know how he is.”

          The young man answered readily but it was obvious that his attention was caught by Monte Cristo's horse. Ianto, in spite of his determination to keep his distance, could not help but trade an amused look with the count.

          “Al Sidi, may I present my friend, Cameron Harkness. Cameron, this is Al Sidi, lord of the desert winds. Oh, and Al Sidi's friend is the Count of Monte Cristo. My lord, may I present the Honourable Cameron Harkness?”

          Ianto watched as Cameron greeted Monte Cristo properly and then proceeded to pepper him with questions about the horse. Monte Cristo was answered readily, pointing out Al Sidi's finer points. At one point, Cameron leaned over to stroke Al Sidi's mane, laughing up at the Count, who smiled back in delight. And in that moment, Ianto knew why Monte Cristo's looks were hauntingly familiar.

          He looked like a Harkness.

          There was a saying in the Lowlands: _ye'll know a Harkness by his angel's face and his devil's laugh._ Looking at the two of them side by side, their hair falling slightly across their foreheads, the dancing eyes, the elegant cheekbones and generous mouth, the oversized hands, it was impossible to deny the resemblance. It was the same face that graced the portraits at Whithorn Castle. Harknesses bred true, his grandfather used to say.

          There were enough differences that most casual observers would not detect the resemblance. Cameron had his mother's eyes and dark hair, and his face was fuller and slightly rounder. But the bone structure underneath the skin was the same. It was as if they had been cut from the same template. Unfortunately, there were people in the ton who were much more than casual observers and whose tongues were always ready to spread scandal. If Lord Whithorn or Cameron started appearing in the same ballrooms and clubs as Monte Cristo, sooner or later someone would make the connection.

          Monte Cristo could be an illegitimate son of the old Viscount, but Ianto doubted it. Harkness men were notorious for their faithfulness, and the Viscount had been devotedly in love with his wife, even after her death. But there was another Harkness, one that had been missing for twenty years. One who by all rights _should_ have been Cameron's father.

          On the other hand, there was that most acute of differences. Jack Harkness had been only seventeen when he had died in Egypt. He had been by all accounts a hellion, an accomplished flirt, a man who attracted women, even older and supposedly wiser women, like heather attracted bees, and who hadn't been reluctant about sampling more than his share.

          And yet, this man had kissed him senseless in the winter garden.

          As if Monte Cristo could hear his thoughts, he looked in Ianto's direction. As their eyes met, Monte Cristo seemed to draw inwards; his eyes grew dark and shuttered and the smile dimmed.

          “I'm sorry but I must go.” Monte Cristo's voice was perfectly steady, but Ianto could hear the underlying sadness. “I have appointments I must not miss.”

          Ianto and Cameron watched him leave the park, then by common accord turned back and cantered down the Row for a while. Ianto watched Cameron out of the corner of his eye. Under the devil-may-care manner, Cameron was troubled. Ianto reached out and placed a hand on the young man's shoulder while at the same time reining in his horse so Cameron was forced to do the same.

          “What is wrong, Cameron?”

          “I don't know!” The words burst out as if propelled by gunpowder. “Father shows up one day and orders me to pack and be ready to leave in two hours. No reason. We nearly killed our horses getting here. And now, we are to pretend to be a happy family.” He gave a bark of laughter. “The truth is, Mother is unhappy, Marianna has retreated to her rooms, and father glowers.”

          “Do you have any idea what is going on?”

          “None. I did hear Summers say that father received some news that put him in a foul mood right before he retuned home to bring me here. Other than that, everything seems as usual.”

          The sense of urgency that had gripped Ianto since his conversation with Stanley became even more acute. He had no doubt that Sir Thomas's behavior was somehow related to a certain Spanish nobleman. He had no proof, but he knew. Monte Cristo's arrival in London had set in motion a storm that would engulf them all.

 


	6. Chapter 6

          “I met Cameron Harkness in the park this morning.”

          Andy turned back from the window, where he had been watching the traffic outside. “Really. And what did you think?”

          “He's a Harkness at seventeen. Horse mad. Reckless.” Jack stripped off his dressing gown and climbed into the bath. “There's unhappiness underneath, though.”

          Andy helped himself to some sherry. “From what my agents have been able to learn, it's not a happy household. The Viscount is cold and formal with everyone, including his wife and children. He's particularly distant towards the girl, Marianna. The servants frankly long for the day when he leaves to visit his other properties.”

          “Marianna is an invalid?”

          “Yes. She suffered a fall when she was eight. Damaged her legs, although Mrs. Nash, the cook, swears all the girl needs is fresh air, exercise, and a lot less doctoring.”

          Jack soaped up a linen square and scrubbed his neck, shoulders, and arms. “Perhaps we should have Owen take a look at her. Discreetly.”

          “Perhaps.” Andy sprawled on Jack's chaise. “And Lieutenant Jones? Did you see him?”

          Jack extended his right leg and soaped it. “Yes. He showed me a winter garden someone had planted in a little corner of the park. It reminded me of Mother's garden, back at the Castle.” Switching legs, he continued scrubbing. “He kissed me.”

          “Not you him? It sounds as if the lieutenant is less reserved than he looks.”

          “Yes. I backed off.”

          Andy sat up, staring at Jack in utter shock. “You did what?”

          Jack shrugged. “I didn't want him to think... when he finds out the truth, I don't want him to think it was all part of our plan.”

          “Good God!” Andy stared blankly. “You've fallen for him.”

          “Perhaps...” Jack was lost in contemplation for a few moments, then shook his head as if to clear it. “By the way, they know who you are.”

          “What do you mean?”

          “Stanley Carstairs identified you. According to Ianto, that red hair of yours is unmistakable.” He submerged himself in the hot water. “I think he has suspicions about me too.”

          “What do you mean?”

          “When Cameron and I were side by side...”

          Andy sighed. “Harknesses breed true.”

          “Yes. Call Mario in, would you? I need the clean water.”

          “Let poor Mario tend to your clothes, milord fashion plate. I'll sluice you down.” Andy picked up the bucket of water set near the fireplace to keep warm. “You know, half of those gentlemen friends of yours would be shocked to know you bathe nearly every day.”

          Jack levered himself upwards and turned his back on Andy, who threw half the bucket of water over him. “Those gentlemen stink at times. And if I remember correctly, it was even worse in my father's day. My mother always gave her female guests especially made fans dipped in perfume that they could wave under their noses in crowded rooms.”

          He turned around to face Andy. “And I don't appreciate smelling like a hothouse after the plants have started to rot.”

          Andy, laughing, flung the rest of the water over him. “No. You smell of lemons and verbena and the ladies swoon when you dance with them.”

          “Of course, Andrew. It's the secret to my success. Cleanliness .”

          He stepped out of the tub and reached for the towel. “Ianto said something very interesting,” he said abruptly. “He said he would fight to protect his mother, sister, and brother. His father was not mentioned. He identified with the Leominster side of the family, not the Pontesbury.”

          “I'm not surprised. The direct Pontesbury line died out nearly twenty years ago. Ianto's grandfather, the current Lord Pontesbury, is only a distant cousin. A more unpleasant man you would be hard put to find. His father is cut from the same cloth. On the other hand, the Earl of Leominster was the last of the great Marcher Lords, a power in his own right. Even now, the family can exert considerable influence.” Andy smiled reminiscently. “And he loved children and they, him. I remember one time when I was very sick, some childhood thing or another, he stopped by with a big bag full of sweets. And chocolate. He actually brought me chocolate and made it himself.”

          “Ianto said he would never have allowed the government to sell your property. He said things happened very fast, and before anyone had found their footing, it was done.” Jack dropped his towel on the hearth and shrugged back into his dressing gown. “He also said that when his uncle Dillon came back from America to take the title, he tried to find you.”

          “Did he? Speaks well of the new Leominster.”

          A soft knock on the door interrupted their conversation. “It must be Rhys,” Jack said. “I told Draper to send him straight up. Come in!”

          The opened and a youngish man walked in. He was a solid man, tall and muscled but slightly out of shape and beginning to carry weight around the middle. There was a roll to his walk and a certain looseness of movement that betrayed his former profession, but it was obvious his sailing years were past. His clothing was of excellent quality, though plain and severe, and his signet ring was a superb example of its kind. He looked what he was, an extremely successful merchant.

          “Rhys. Tell me you bring me good news.”

          "Of several kinds, my lord. Which one would you like first?”

          “Start with the least important.” Jack said airily. “I'll leave you to choose. Mario!”

          “I'm coming, Don Edmundo!” The voice coming from the other room held the aggrieved tone that only a servant of long and close association could muster. “Cravats won't iron themselves, worse luck!”

          Andy laughed. “Tell us your news, Rhys.”

          “The least important, at least in your eyes, I am sure, is that the _Cardiff Star_ docked last week with a full cargo from Brazil. Emeralds, amethysts, imperial topazes, and a nice amount of diamonds. Plus some rather lovely furniture that will sell very well. We are all considerably wealthier today.” Rhys helped himself to sherry and toasted the others. “Considerably.”

          “Well, I, for one, don't consider that the least important,” Andy said judiciously. “I like being rich.”

          Jack turned a jaundiced eye on both of them. “When you are both quite finished gloating,..”

          “Sorry, my lord,” Rhys said with no trace of subservience or apology. “I also bring news from Gibraltar. My contacts there have come up trumps. They checked the dates we gave them against the visits made by our French friend, and they match. Three times the HMS _Macclesfield_ was in England, and Captain Carstairs visited his brother Sir Henry at the latter's Admiralty offices. Two weeks after each visit, our French friend arrives in the Spanish side. Soon after _that_ , the courier ship was boarded or sunk.”

          “Suggestive but not conclusive,” Jack said.

          “True. But they also got Commander Jonas Holmes, who investigated the boardings in Gibraltar, to put in writing his opinion that the leaks originated in the Admiralty itself. Commander Holmes is highly respected in Naval circles and his word seems to carry some weight.” He took some papers from his inner pocket. “Here they are.”

          “That is better.” Monte Cristo looked them over and passed them on to Andy. “The noose tightens.”

          “I wonder,” Andy said, “what evidence Vennington presented to Carstairs to make him commit treason. It had to be something conclusive. Carstairs wouldn't have been stampeded into concealing such a crime nor committing another one on weak evidence.”

          “If we had that, we would have everything we need.” Monte Cristo said. “Rhys, can you stay for a few days?”

          “Until the end of the week. I have to be back in Cardiff by next Tuesday.”

          “Good. Andy, is there any way we could get Owen to examine Marianna Harkness without being intrusive?”

          “I believe Lady Whithorn takes her out for outings in Green Park or the Heath from time to time. They go by closed carriage. It seems Sir Thomas does not like anyone to see Marianna in her delicate condition.” Andy snorted. “I can have my people notify me the next time they set out. On horseback you can be waiting for them by the time they get there.”

          “Perfect. Now it's time for me to get ready for tonight. Monte Cristo must make an appearance.”

          “Let's leave the fashion plate to Mario's sweet mercies, Rhys.” Andy headed for the door with great alacrity. “Toshiko is expecting me for supper, and she would enjoy seeing you again. Afterwards we can go to the study and count all those lovely profits.”

          Jack laughed. “Traitors and philistines. Go, go!”

          An hour later the Count of Monte Cristo strolled through the door of White's, impeccably turned out for an evening spent card-playing with his cronies. By now he was a familiar figure, and gentlemen nodded to him or hailed him as he passed. He shook hands and acknowledged introductions, but didn't stop for long conversation. Upon reaching the card room, he was greeted by the Marquess of Chattisham and Major MacLeod, who were holding down one of the best tables.

          “There you are, Monte Cristo. We thought you had decided it to give it a miss.”

          “Certainly not. I do apologize for my lateness. There's Vennington. Let's ask him to make a fourth.” He ignored the Marquess' raised eyebrows at his choice and waived to the viscount. “Rhys Williams arrived from Cardiff with news.”

          “Good ones, I hope,” said Chattisham.

          “Very good. The _Cardiff Star_ docked early this week from Rio de Janeiro. We have done very well indeed out of the venture. He and Stratton are seeing to the business end of it now.” He shuffled and dealt the cards. “I pay no attention to that part of it, of course.”

          “Of course,” said Major MacLeod, eyes twinkling.

          Vennington signaled a waiter for another drink. “Is that the gemstone ship you told us about?”

          “One of them. Rhys brought me some emeralds to add to my collection.”

          “You collect emeralds?” Chattisham asked.

          Major MacLeod laughed uproariously. “My dear Chattisham, he keeps a bowl of them on a shelf in his study. A crystal bowl.”

          “I like the way they reflect light,” Jack said carelessly. “Poor Stratton is always remonstrating with me about it.”

          “I would think so!” Vennington exclaimed, and Jack noticed his hands were shaking. “You cannot possibly trust the servants!”

          “But I do,” Jack dealt out another round of cards. “I am a very generous master and a very bad enemy. They know it.” He looked at his own cards, made a face, and lay the hand down. “I am thinking of a small card party this Saturday. Would I offend any of the grandes dames by interfering with a major entertainment?”

          “Good lord, no.” Chattisham said. “the Little Season is winding down. There is nothing much going on. Two more weeks and we all depart town in any case. Cards, eh?”

          “Nothing major. I’m thinking of faro. Rather old-fashioned, but entertaining among friends. My housekeeper found two of the baize cloths in the attic while they were cleaning. Two or three tables. Invite only people in our confidence, so we can be informal. How does that sound?”

          “I used to play that with my uncles and brothers years ago,” said Sir George. “I believe it would be amusing to do it again.”

          They fell to planning the card party and the evening passed convivially. It was half-past four before Jack left the club. He waved off the Marquess' offer of a carriage ride. It was a cold, clear night, and the walk to Grosvenor Street was not a long one. Wrapping his cloak a little tighter, he started for home.

          As he turned into Davies Street, three men appeared out of the shadows. Light glinted on their knives. They made a concerted rush at him, trying to corner him against the angle formed by two houses. He stepped back and in one quick movement ripped off his cloak with one hand while with the other he pressed the button that released the outer part of his sword cane. One hard shake and the elegant teak cane dropped off, revealing the hidden length of Toledo steel.

          The angry hiss of the sword coming free made the men stop cold. It was obvious that they were not expecting someone ready to defend himself. Finally, one of them men decided to try and accomplish their goal with a minimum of risk. He threw the knife at Jack. Unfortunately for him, Jack had been expecting something of the sort; as soon as the man raised his arm, he had whipped the cloak in a wide arc in front of him. The knife was caught in the heavy folds and, as the cloak whipped back, was released sideways to smash against the wall

          Another of the men tried to make use of the cover provided by the flying fabric to rush in. Jack saw him out of the corner of his eye and twisted sideways, bringing the sword down in a slashing motion. The man howled as the steel bit into his shoulder. He stumbled back, blood streaming down his arm.

          Jack pulled the cloak back and made a wide sweep with the sword instead. “I trained with Spain's best bull fighters. Come on, gentlemen. You can have me. All it will cost you is one life. Which one will sacrifice himself for the others?”

          The wounded man turned and ran. The sound of his sobbing breath broke the nerve of the other two, who followed him. Jack waited a few minutes, then, having made sure they weren't coming back, picked up his cane scabbard. Wrapping the cloak over his arm, he set out at a fast jog, sword held at the ready in his hand.

          As he ran, he went over the possibilities in his mind. It wasn't unknown for men walking home alone to be robbed, but in this area, with its night patrols, it was very unusual. It was even more unusual for thieves to target fit, sober men; their favorite victim was the inebriated dandy or the elderly men. Jack had seen a few of those during his walk. And yet, in spite of a field full of rich pickings, the robbers had waited for him.

          Someone knew Jack Harkness was back in England.

 


	7. Chapter 7

          Jack pointed at the woman walking next to a Bath chair being pushed by a footman. “That is them.”

          Doctor Owen Harper's lips pinched in disapproval. “What is a lady of quality doing walking in Green Park, even accompanied by a footman?”

          “It's not as bad as it was the last time you were in London, Owen, but I take your meaning.” Jack grimaced in disgust. “It seems Sir Thomas does not approve of his sick daughter being seen in society. This is about the only place for the girl to get some fresh air, unless Lady Whithorn wants to drive to Hampstead Heath.”

          The only answer he received was a snort. Dr. Harper's opinion of most members of the haut ton had been confirmed again, and he really had no rebuttal. He studied his companion. Owen Harper was a slender man of medium height who was usually overlooked when among taller, more powerfully built men, but Jack had learned not to underestimate him. He may have been arrogant and opinionated, but he was clever, quick-thinking, and possessed of a peculiar sort of stubborn courage, not to mention being the best doctor Jack had ever encountered.

          “Shall we go down, then?” Doctor Harper asked. “I can't make any sort of diagnosis unless I can see the girl close up.”

          They started down Constitution Hill, giving the impression of two gentlemen of leisure out for a day's ride away from the censorious eyes of society's dragons. As they passed the Bath chair, Jack reined Al Sidi in.

          “Lady Whithorn?”

          Gwen looked up at them. She looked composed as usual but Jack could detect some hidden discomfort. She curtseyed. “Lord Monte Cristo.”

          The men dismounted. With his best smile, Jack extended his hand to the young girl on the Bath chair. “And you must be Marianna.”

          She looked quickly at her mother. When Gwen nodded, she extended her own. “I am, my lord.”

          Marianna Harkness was sixteen, but looked younger. She had her mother's thick, straight dark hair and full lips, but the rest of her was pure Harkness. Brilliant blue eyes looked up at his, and he caught the moment she realized the resemblance, and the quick snap of the mouth as she bit back whatever comment she was going to make. He revised his initial assessment of the girl. There was a very good intellect hiding behind those eyes.

          “Lady Whithorn, Miss Marianna, may I present Doctor Owen Harper?” Jack motioned to the man standing slightly behind him. “Doctor Harper has just returned from Holland where he taught at the University of Leiden.”

          Doctor Harper bowed over the ladies' hands punctiliously. Gwen gave him a sharp look. “Surely you are British, doctor Harper.”

          “Indeed I am, Lady Whithorn. I was a ship's surgeon for several years, but then I met the Count's father and he offered to send me to school in Leiden. I jumped at the chance, of course. After I completed my studies I was asked to stay and teach.”

          “And what did you teach?”

          “My specialty is bone injuries. An outgrowth of my work with sailors.”

          Gwen stared at him in shock. Her eyes slewed towards Marianna, then returned to sweep over doctor Harper and past him to rest on Jack. He returned her look openly. If Gwen had not changed in the intervening years, she was not one to cut off her nose to spite her face. After a few minutes' internal struggle, she turned back to doctor Harper.

          “My daughter suffers such an injury.”

          “Does she?” Owen smiled down at Marianna. “May I ask you a few questions, Miss Harkness?”

          “Perhaps we should find a quieter spot for this conversation.” With his best smile, Jack handed both horses' reins to the groom and took his place behind the chair. “Please wait here.”

          He pushed the Bath chair towards a small stand of trees on the Palace side. The others followed a few paces behind, talking softly. Once there, he secured the chair at an angle, and, noticing that her lap throw had begun to slip, tucked it in again.

          “Thank you.” She examined him again then said very softly. “You look very like your portrait, cousin Jack.”

          Even though he had been expecting some comment, that particular one threw him off his stride for a moment. Smiling with cheeky delight at his shock, she placed her fingers on her lips, indicating silence. He laughed and tugged at her hair.

          “All right, my lord, enough flirting with the pretty girls.” Doctor Harper stepped up to the chair. “I need to speak with miss Harkness for a few minutes.”

          While Owen's tone was light, his eyes were hard. He gave a small jerk of his head towards Gwen. Taking the hint, Jack turned away and joined her. One look at her face and he knew something was more even more wrong than he had suspected.

          “What is it?”

          She stared straight ahead. “Doctor Harper asked me if the doctor Thomas called in for Marianna had prescribed any medication. I told him he had ordered a tonic for her. She has to take it every three hours, so I always carry it on these outings. I showed it to him. He smelled it and tasted it and put it in his pocket. He didn’t say anything, but then he didn’t need to.”

          Jack tried to make a show of surprise but she cut him off. “Please, don't.” Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him. “I'm not going to stand in your way, Jack. Don't say anything! Even if I hadn't recognized you the first time I saw you, do you think I could miss how much my own children resemble you? Harknesses all, you lot. I repeat, I am not going to stand in your way, especially now that I know my husband has been poisoning our daughter. If he can do that, God knows what else he's capable of. But I want to know what your plans are for my children.”

          He looked at her curiously. “You do not ask about yourself.”

          She waved his comment away. “I'm not important in this.”

          “Why did you marry him?”

         She sighed. “You were dead, declared a traitor. I was seventeen. I don't think you can imagine the devastation I felt. You had been my first love, my dream love, and everything I thought I knew about you seemed a lie. My future lay shattered at my feet. Then your father died. I met Thomas at the funeral. He was kind and attentive and he reminded me of you.” She laughed bitterly. “Everyone thought it was fitting that I would continue the Harkness line, even if it wasn't with you. When he proposed, I accepted.”

          Jack hesitated, then, with a twist of the lips that told her how much he hated wanting to know, he asked her another question. “Was he a good husband?”

          “At first, yes. We were happy enough for the first two years of our marriage. Then, after Cameron was born, he started to act oddly. He would take Cameron out of his crib, take him to the portrait gallery, and hold him up to the portrait your father had painted of you and your mother when you were about five. He looked at Cameron's eyes and hair and accused me of having a lover. We had shared the same bed every night since our marriage and I was always accompanied by a footman when I left the castle!” Her hands twisted on the drawstrings of her reticule. “All the servants thought him mad. We were all relieved when he decamped to London and didn't come back for six months. Then he came back for a month, and nine months later Marianna was born.”

          “And the madness started again?”

          “Redoubled. Marianna's eyes, you see. True Harkness blue. Thomas's own are paler, less brilliant. This time he had poor Mr. Dyce, the new steward, search high and low throughout Scotland looking for you. He was certain you had returned. When Dyce reminded him that Oliver Jones had testified he had seen your body, he flew into a mad rage and departed for London again. He came back a few weeks later and he has stayed in Scotland ever since. He spends long months at the shooting box on Loch Rannoch, or at the Davidson property near Oban. When he's at Whithorn he's cold and distant, but not abusive. He defers to me in many matters of estate management and concentrates on investments. We get along as well as can be expected.”

          She turned to look at her daughter, who was laughingly chatting with doctor Harper. “I have the children and Whithorn. I'm happy enough.”

          “You shouldn’t have had to settle for enough.” He turned too. “We would have been brilliant together, Gwen.”

          “Yes, we would have. But that was a long time ago, and that part of our lives is dead.” She threw him a look full of repressed laughter, and for a moment he could see a hint of the girl he had loved. “Besides, I do believe you have another interest these days.”

          He looked first startled and then alarmed. “Gwen...”

          “Don't worry, Jack. You have thrown dust in everyone's eyes. I only noticed because I happen to know that Jack Harkness had an appreciative eye for both male and female beauty.” Now she did laugh. “Poor Jack, you thought I didn't know.”

          “And it didn't bother you?” he said, bewildered.

          “I knew you would be a faithful husband. It was your way, your family tradition. Harkness men are faithful.”

          He shook his head. “I will never understand women, so help me God.”

          “Understand this. We will do anything to protect our children. Whoever destroyed your life, our life, you can have. The children are another matter.”

          “Even if it was Thomas?” he challenged.

          “Even if.”

          He gave her a long, level, hard look. “Very well. I'll try to salvage what I can for Marianna and Cameron. In any case, Whithorn will be his.”

          “What do you mean?” For the first time she seemed flustered. “You are the rightful Whithorn and Glasserton. If your name is cleared...”

          He shook his head, and her voice trickled to a stop. “I am Monte Cristo. Jack Harkness is dead. Even if his name is cleared, who he was doesn't exist anymore. Cameron will make a first-rate Viscount under your guidance. And if Marianna ever recovers and wants to marry, she will have a good enough dowry.”

          “Marianna will recover.” Doctor Harper said, coming up behind them. “There's nothing physically wrong with her except lack of exercise and proper eating. If I may, lady Whithorn, I will send you a list of suggestions for a new regimen for her.”

          She pressed his hand between hers. “Thank you.”

          “We need to avoid anything that can show a connection between Lady Whithorn and us.” Jack said thoughtfully. “You mentioned you manage the estate and Sir Thomas the investments. How about the Welsh investments your father left you?”

          “No, they are separate. They aren't very large, really. The bulk of my inheritance was invested in the Funds and that was turned over to Thomas.”

          “But you still have reason to receive communications from Welsh merchants without raising eyebrows?”

          “Yes, of course. I do, from time to time.”

          “Good. You will receive a visit from a representative of the firm of Williams and Mansfield. Who is your representative in Wales?”

          “Marcus Brooks.”

          “All right. Mr. Brooks will send Mr. Rhys Williams to you to discuss some business matters. Will that pass muster with Thomas?”

          “Yes. Something like it has happened before, though not often.” She opened her reticule and searched through it. “Give this to Mr. Williams. It's one of Marcus's cards. That and his own will get him through. Everyone knows of Williams and Mansfield.”

          “Yes, that will do.” He put it away. “When you meet with Rhys, arrange for a place to meet again in case if becomes necessary. Somewhere where you can run into each other accidentally.”

          “Very well.”

          “And one more thing.” He turned to look at Marianna, who was trying to hear what was being said. “Take care of that minx of yours. She's a great deal shrewder than she lets on.”

          Gwen simply smiled. “I know.”

          Jack pushed the Bath chair back to where the groom was waiting with the horses. They bowed one last time to the ladies and mounted. Doctor Harper cantered away, but Gwen put a hand on Jack's knee and motioned for him to lean down.

          “If you hurt Ianto I will have your intestines for garters. Do I make myself clear?”

          He saluted her mockingly. “As the Whithorn in winter. And what will you do to him if he hurts me?”

          He galloped away, leaving her open-mouthed. After a while, shock was replaced by speculation.

          “Jack Harkness,” she whispered to herself. “I believe you have fallen in love.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

          Ianto opened the garden gate and let himself into the grounds of Vennington House. If he needed to visit when his father was in residence he tended to use the servant's entrance; it was more comfortable all around, as his conversations with his father tended to degenerate into shouting matches. All he needed to do was retrieve the gloves he had left in the house while in the midst of helping Rhiannon decamp for their Christmas stay at their uncle's house. If everything was well, he and Alexander would join her and their mother in a fortnight. Their father, as was his custom, would join one or another of the house parties being organized by his gambling cronies.

          The rear garden at Vennington House had been divided into two unequal sections by a high hedge. The larger part was laid out as a formal parterre of a particularly complex design. The smaller part was a potager which kept the kitchen supplied with fresh herbs and vegetables. Although supposedly utterly separate from each other, a narrow opening between the hedge and the wall allowed access to the kitchen side. Ianto slipped through the opening and, walking up to the kitchen door, knocked and went in.

          Mr. and Mrs. Crowther, butler and cook respectively, were sitting at the kitchen table with mugs of tea and a plate of toasted bread with jam. They tried to stand up as he came in, but Ianto waved them back down.

          “No, please don't. I'm just passing through. I seem to have left my gloves behind in the melee this morning.”

          Mollie Crowther laughed. “Melee indeed, Master Ianto. But she'll be missed. Miss Rhiannon makes all our lives happier.”

          Ianto kissed her cheek. “That she does, Mollie.” He pinched a piece of her toast and was rewarded by a laugh and a slap on the behind, much as she had done when he was a child. “I'll just slip upstairs and retrieve my gloves.”

          Crowther coughed. “Your father is in, and he has guests.”

          The bland tone, accompanied as it had been by that cough, alerted Ianto that something Crowther disapproved of was going on. “Who are the they?”

          “Viscount Whithorn and Lord Carstairs, sir.”

          Ianto tried to meet Crowther's eyes, but the old man wouldn't look up. He had known Crowther all his life – one of his earliest memories involved riding on Crowther's shoulders – and he had never known him to be anything less than scrupulously honest. If Crowther was ashamed of telling him something, it was because he was ashamed for the family, not for himself.

          And he had never called Ianto sir in all of his life.

          “Are they in the library?”

          “No, sir.” Their eyes finally met. “Lord Vennington took them to the small sitting room.”

          Nodding, Ianto left the kitchen, but instead of heading for the main part of the house he went down a corridor leading to the back stairs and the servants' wing. Half-way up the staircase a second one branched off to the children's wing. At the top landing of that one there was an alcove that overlooked the sitting room. At one time the room had been used as a playroom for the children of the household, and a small window had been cut into the alcove so that nannies and other servants could keep an eye on them. Once the children had been grown, the lady of the house had turned it into her private sitting room and the window filled in, but the workmen had not done a very good job. Chinks between the brick and the old opening allowed someone standing in the alcove to hear the conversations below quite clearly.

          Ianto had discovered it one day when, Alexander and Rhiannon being confined to the nursery with some childhood disease or another, he had been allowed to roam while their nanny and their governess were busy in the sick room. He had stood in the alcove and listened as his mother and her friends gossiped about the latest scandals over tea. He never expected to use it to spy on his own father, but, then again, he hadn't expected his own father to have become... what he had.

          “You told me he was dead,” he heard Lord Whithorn say coldly. “You said you had seen his body!”

          “So I did. My men beat him bloody and left him in the desert nearly naked. Do you truly think someone can survive that?”

          Ianto heard the sound of a hand slamming on wood. “I tell you Monte Cristo is Jack Harkness!”

          “And I tell you that you are mad. Jack Harkness died in the sands of the Sahara. But even if he hadn't, what of it? Thanks to Carstairs, he is a convicted traitor. He would be tossed in jail the moment he revealed himself.”

          “You are a fool,” Lord Carstairs said. “This isn't a seventeen year old boy with nothing but his word. This man is a friend of Wellington, and is idolized by the soldiers who fought with him in Spain. Any number of influential men would demand a review of the matter.”

          “And you can't afford that, can you, Carstairs?” Ianto's father said. “If they clear Jack Harkness, they won't have too far to look. _L'ecossais_. That idiot brother of yours couldn't have picked a more obvious name.”

          “You murdered Jack Harkness for money.”

          “And you covered up the murder!”

          “Stop it!” Whithorn's voice was full of scorn. “What is done is done. We need to plan what to do next.”

          “He has the habit to walk home after his evening engagements. There are men down in the stews that will do anything for a few crowns. Hire them and be done with him.”

          “Carstairs is right, Vennington. You are a fool. Did you imagine that would not occur to me?”

          “Ah. You tried and failed.”

          “Obviously, as he was noticeably alive this morning prancing on that horse of his in the park.” Liquid splashed into a glass. “He has to have a weak spot.”

          “He might,” Ianto's father said thoughtfully. “The woman that travels with him. I am told he's very protective of her.”

          A chair scraped back. “I'm not listening to this.”

          “Sit down, Carstairs.” Whithorn snarled. “You're in as deep as the rest of us, and don't you forget it. You're invited to the card party tomorrow night, Vennington?”

          “I am.”

          “Find out all you can. Discreetly. There might be a way we can get our hands on her.”

          Ianto slipped down the stairs and back to the kitchen. Crowther and Mollie were still there. Mollie took a look at his face and gave a small gasp of fear and distress. Impulsively he hugged her to him and buried his face in her neck as he had when he had been a child and she his nanny and he had succumbed to nightmares. He inhaled the smell of baking bread, and spices, and the talcum powder she used and somehow it centered him and gave him courage. He loosened his hold.

          “I have something to do.”

          She ruffled his hair, and her voice was thick with her native Welsh accent. “We know, child. We know.”

          Ianto left the house and turned towards Grosvenor Street. What he had heard sickened him. He had no great opinion of his father, but even so, it was hard to accept he would sink so low. The other two men he had known from the cradle. He had spent considerable time in their homes; indeed, their children were like brothers and sisters to him. He had believed them to be, though personally cold and reserved, honourable. Instead they had all revealed themselves to be traitors and murderers.

          He ran up the steps of the Monte Cristo townhouse. As he reached the door it swung open, and the man himself stood in front of him.

          “Hello, Ianto Jones.”

          “You serve as your own butler?” Ianto blurted out, then shook his head to clear it. “Never mind. I need to speak to you.”

          “Only when I see handsome young men nearly running up the street in their eagerness to get here.” At Ianto's blank look, he frowned. “You don't even remember asking, do you? Come in.”

          Ianto stepped into one of the most elegantly exotic entry halls he had ever seen, but his mind skittered away from the details. He started to shake uncontrollably, as if in the grip of a high fever. He tried to say something, but nothing emerged from his open mouth.

          “Ianto!” Monte Cristo – Jack! – took his arm. “Come this way. Draper,” he said to the blank-faced man standing near the stairs. “Please bring hot tea and whiskey to the study.”

          “Yes, my lord.”

          Ianto let himself be guided to the back of the house and into a narrow, airy room that smelled faintly of lavender and cinnamon. Jack brought him to a sofa near the fireplace and pushed him down.

          “Sit. Tell me what this is all about.”

          He stared at the man standing in front of him. He had avoided Jack for two days, but he knew Jack had been riding in the park every morning. Jack was still wearing his buckskin breeches and riding boots, but he had taken off his coat and waistcoat and was parading around in his shirt, which was open at the throat, showing an expanse of neck and chest. Ianto noticed his chest was as tanned as his neck. It was much more pleasant to think about than what he had overheard earlier.

          “Ianto?” Jack prompted.

          He took a deep breath. “I overheard Lord Whithorn, Lord Carstairs, and my father talking earlier today. I spied on them,” he said defiantly. “They said that... Twenty years ago, Thomas Harkness paid to have my father kill his nephew Jack Harkness under cover of an accusation of treason. Sir Henry Carstairs helped cover it up because his brother, Captain Carstairs, was the real traitor.”

          Jack sat down next to him. “I'm sorry.”

          “You're sorry? Why?”

          “It can't be easy, learning that about your own father. Even if he was never much of one.”

          Ianto felt as though he had to move or jump out of his skin. He rose and paced from the sitting area to the desk and back. “You're right. It isn't. You always think, in spite of the evidence, that there will be things he will not do. When you find yourself wrong it's as if someone had kicked away what little underpinnings your life has.” He stopped in front of Jack. “There's more.”

          The door opened and Draper rolled in a tea cart with the requested tea and whiskey and several plates of pastries. “I'm sorry it took so long, sir. I thought Lieutenant Jones could do with something to eat, too.”

          “No apologies necessary, Draper. This is perfect.” Jack reached for the tea pot. “You can go. We'll help ourselves. See that we're not disturbed unless it's an emergency.”

          “Yes, sir.”

          Jack busied himself with pouring tea and topping off the cups with a healthy stream of whiskey. Once Draper had closed the door behind him, he patted the seat again. “Sit down and drink your tea. You looked about ready to keel over when you arrived.”

          “I think I was.” Ianto gulped down some tea. “They're going after your ward. My father is supposed to find out everything he can about her movements tomorrow during the card party.”

          Jack sipped at his own cup. “Logical move. They would see her as my one weakness. I'm known to be very protective of her.”

          “Is that all you have to say?”

          “Toshiko is well protected.” Jack grinned at him. “But I will take extra precautions. Don't worry.” He turned abruptly serious. “Ianto. The card game tomorrow is a trap for your father. That's why... in the park... “

          “You said you wouldn't stop things even if you could.” Ianto picked up a scone and set it down again. “I understand now. I don't blame you. We will have to emigrate. This isn’t the kind of blot that can be wiped clean. Certainly the Crown will seize our properties...”

          “Ianto!”

          “I must write to Alexander. We must realize as much blunt as we can before the vultures descend. Shades of the Davidsons. We deserve it, I suppose.”

          Ianto, no! If everything works out the way it should, there will be no need for anyone other than a few people to ever know. But I do want you to understand.” Jack gripped his hands. “There's no way out for your father.”

          Ianto stared at him for a few moments. “I know. There's no way out for us, either. Nothing can survive this, nothing can be retrieved. Except... this.” He moved closer until their mouths were nearly touching. “Once. Just this once I want to know what it is to be truly loved. To truly love.”

          Jack moved his hands up Ianto's arms and shoulders to rest on either side of his neck. His fingers spread wide, cupping the back of Ianto's head and pulling him forward the rest of the way. Their mouths opened and clung, their tongues twining. Ianto flowed against Jack, letting him take the lead, letting those big hands mold him as they would. It was enervating and exhilarating and more terrifying than leading a cavalry charge into a battery of French cannon, but he wouldn't have given it up for the world.

          When their mouths finally separated, Jack gave him a soft, gentle smile, very different from his usual overpowering grin. “Come upstairs with me.”

          It was a whisper, but Ianto heard it clearly and he didn't need to think about it twice. “Yes.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

          Jack stretched luxuriously. He loved waking up like this, cocooned in a mountain of sweetly scented bedding, with a dozing lover warming his side. It was a familiar enough sensation, but this time it had an added contentment, a peace and stillness that he had never felt before. He hadn't even known he was looking for it, but now he had found it he wanted nothing more than to experience it every day of his life. But no matter how much he tried to deceive himself, he knew there was no possibility of that.

          He turned over carefully, so as not to disturb Ianto. His young lover slept curled on his side, one hand under his cheek. He looked like a debauched angel, his hair tousled from Jack's hands and his lips swollen from Jack's kisses. He had been so innocent, and yet so completely eager, that Jack had found himself using every ounce of his expertise to make sure Ianto's first time was everything that a first time should be. And in doing so he had found that the physical attraction between them had been transformed into something else, something a good deal deeper and more binding.

          Ianto made a little sound that was a cross between a snuffle and a whimper and pushed the covers off his shoulder. Jack couldn't resist the temptation of pressing a kiss to the curve where the shoulder met the neck, and following that with a series of nips up the neck to the earlobe and then across the line of the jaw. He knew exactly the moment Ianto woke up; Ianto's breath hitched, and his muscles tensed as if to stop himself from moving. Jack retraced the line of bites with gentle sweeps of the tongue until he could whisper into Ianto's ear.

          “More?” He was fascinated by the way Ianto's whole skin flushed. “You know you look delectable when you blush.”

          The blush grew just a bit brighter. “I don't think I can....” Ianto spoke in an embarrassed whisper. “I'm a little sore.”

          Jack chuckled. “My lovely Ianto. There are so many things I want to teach you.”

          He molded himself to Ianto’s back, his erection between Ianto’s buttocks. He wrapped his arm around Ianto and let his fingers caress Ianto’s chest and tease his nipples. The little moan the teasing elicited made him grin again. He stroked lightly, inch by torturous inch, along the thin line of hair that connected Ianto’s chest to his groin, and then combed through the wiry hair. Another little moan. He repeated the gesture, extending it lower to cup Ianto’s sac. The moan became a muted howl as Ianto arched his back and panted.

          The motion put Ianto’s mouth within reach, and with a little twist and some adjustment Jack reached it. The kiss started gently but it quickly escalated into a mutual devouring. Jack's hand moved, grasping the base of Ianto's penis and stroking firmly to the glans. As he reached it he gave his wrist a slight twist, then he let his hand slide back down. Ianto moaned into Jack's mouth.

          “You like that? Very well, then.”

          He repeated the move again and again as he rocked his hips, rubbing himself into Ianto's furrow. He savoured the sensations to the fullest: the feel of Ianto's silky skin under his hand, the sound of his gasps as he moved his hips to Jack's rhythm, the faint taste of himself in Ianto's mouth. He felt a sudden surge of possessiveness; he wanted nothing more than to take Ianto to the Monte de Cristo and keep him there, safe and protected for the rest of both their lives.

          He knew he couldn't. There was no chance for them, there never had been. Ianto would go on to marry and raise a family, and he would return to the Monte de Cristo and never see Britain again. The only thing he could have were memories.

          But if that was all he could have, he needed some that could last a lifetime. He buried his head in the curve of Ianto's neck and abandoned himself to the passion. He let the fire burn uncontrolled, let everything he was pour into the act of loving Ianto.

          It seemed to last a very long time, or only a minute. He couldn't tell and didn't care. He felt Ianto begin to buck into his hand, his moans turning into rasping wails that seemed to be torn out of a parched throat; he felt his own lungs burn, and he gasped for air as he moved faster and faster. Finally, right at the point where he didn't think he could stand any more, Ianto arched against him and exploded in his hand, and that was enough to drag him along into a glorious moment of perfect bliss.

          They rested a while, catching their breath, satiated, boneless. Jack lay back and pulled Ianto to him, and smiled as Ianto snuggled into his body, his head on Jack's shoulder. He wanted desperately to stay like that forever, or at least for a while longer. There was nothing of the outside world that he wanted while Ianto was in his arms.

          As soon as the thought formed, the outside world intruded in the form of a soft knock on the bedroom door. Jack felt Ianto's panic and tightened his arm.

          “No. It's only Mario.”

          His valet entered, his eyes firmly on the far wall. “I've brought up some hot water, sir. While you clean up I will tend to Mr. Ianto's clothes. Lady Toshiko is expecting you both for tea.”

          He left much the same way he arrived. Ianto scrambled out of bed, keeping, much to Jack's amusement, a bed sheet wrapped around him for modesty. “Are all your servants so cavalier about finding a man in your bed?”

          “Mario has an unending supply of patience with me. As for the rest,” Jack shrugged. “I treat them like human beings and that buys their silence.

          “What do you mean?”

          “Ianto, haven’t you noticed the conditions in which most servants live? How they’re treated? No, you probably haven’t because your mother and her Leomister relatives probably treat theirs well too. But in most places they’re one step above mules.” Getting out of bed, he retrieved two robes from the armoire and handed one to Ianto. “I was at a very magnificent dinner the other day where the lady of the house informed me she had dismissed her maid for having had the temerity of catching a fever from her ladyship’s children the day before the party. A woman who was the sole support of her own aged parents!”

          “I never though about it,” Ianto said slowly. “You’re right. I’ve seen things like that.”

          “So I pay them a good wage. They don’t work more than ten or eleven hours a day. They eat good food, not leftovers from my table or the cheapest thing in the market. I do little things like letting them have one full day off every two weeks to spend with their families and send them off with a hamper full of food and things like fabric, needles and thread, and soap. I have a doctor to take care of them and their families. I make certain they’re well clothed and shod, and that their rooms are decent and warm in the winter. It costs me little enough, considering all the money I have, and it makes them eager to keep their jobs.”

          Ianto smiled. “So you bribe them?”

          Laughing, Jack threw his arm around Ianto’s shoulders. “Exactly. Now let’s get cleaned up. We have a tea date.”

          “Lady Toshiko. Is that your mysterious ward?”

          Jack sobered up. “Yes. Ianto…”

          “What is it?” Ianto’s face clouded. “Is she part of your plan?”

          “In a way.” Jack stepped away. “She has a story to tell you. I’m sorry.”

          Ianto rubbed his shoulders as if to make up for the loss of Jack’s warmth. “Toshiko? That is an odd name. What is it?”

          “Japanese.”

          “My father’s ship spent some time… Oh God.” Ianto sat down abruptly. “What did he do?”

          “It’s her story to tell. Come on.” He extended his hand. “I’ll be with you. Remember none of this is your fault. You bear none of the responsibility.”

          Ianto reached for Jack’s hand, but his face was still somber. “All right.”

          They bathed quickly and dressed with Mario’s help. Jack led Ianto to Toshiko’s suite. He knocked.

          “Come in.”

          Jack pushed the door open and ushered Ianto in. He watched with amusement as Ianto saw Toshiko for the first time. She was wearing a kimono in violet silk embroidered in a wave pattern in gold and silver thread and beads, with long sleeves that nearly reached the floor. Her under garment was another robe, this one of finest Egyptian linen, embroidered with orchids. Her hair had been tied with two purple and gold ribbons, one high up on her head and the other at the nape of the neck. She was every inch the imperial princess.

          “Your Royal Highness, may I introduce Lieutenant the Honourable Ianto Jones. Ianto, her Royal Highness the Lady Hachisuka Toshiko, daughter of Lord Hachisuka Koroku, brother to Lord Hachisuka Haruaki, daimyo of the Tokushima Domain.”

          Ianto bowed low. “Your Highness.”

          “Lieutenant Jones. Please come sit. Jack, over there.” She pointed at one of the chairs. “Lieutenant Jones, here next to me.”

          They did as she told them. She poured tea in small porcelain cups and handed them around. Jack sipped at his as he watched Ianto. The younger man appeared to be perfectly in control of himself, and yet Jack had seen him shaking at the thought of his father's crimes a few hours earlier. Not for the first time, he wondered if Vennington was abusive towards his family; Ianto had all the earmarks of someone who had learned early not to make himself a target.

          “Before I tell you my story,” Toshiko said, and Jack could hear the compassion in her voice. “I want you to know that I do not hold you or your siblings responsible for it.”

          Ianto set the cup down, the slight shake of his hand the only outward sign of inner turmoil. “Tell me.”

          “It was summer, and it was very hot. My father decided to take us to our home in the mountains. We left Tokushima Castle and followed the coastal road for a while. Suddenly, there were gunshots and our people started to fall, bleeding or dead. We had been ambushed. I think my father thought it was by one or another of his enemies, because he drew his sword and issued a challenge. They riddled him with bullets.” She sipped at her tea. “When the men came out of hiding we could see they were not Japanese. They killed all the men, even the boy children. They raped the women and the girls until they died. It went on for hours. My mother was one of the last to die... They were going to do it to me too, but one of the officers convinced them that I would fetch a very high price in the slave markets in Egypt.”

          Jack had been watching Ianto. Totally still, his face carefully composed, his hands on his thighs, looking more like a statue than a human being, he seemed to be listening with no more than courteous attention, but there was something about it that made Jack uneasy. Too controlled, too distant.

          “I was lucky. The ship's surgeon, mister Harper, as he was then, protected me under the guise of protecting their investment. When we got to Egypt he tried to help me escape, but they caught us. He managed to get away and tried to see an attaché, but Captain Jones was there before him, and nobody would speak to him.” She poured herself more tea and drank it thirstily. “The ship’s second in command took me to be sold. I was lucky again. Jack and his father were passing by the market. They saw me and bought me.”

          “I see.” Ianto's voice had a flat atonality to it. “Thank you for telling me, Your Highness...”

          Jack jumped out of his chair as Ianto's eyes rolled upwards and he slid off the sofa in a dead faint. He pulled Ianto against him, cradling him in his lap. Ianto's skin was cold and clammy, and he was starting to shake.

          “Tosh, we need something stronger than tea. And...”

          She was already running into the bedroom, coming out a few minutes later with a thick blanket. After helping Jack to wrap Ianto in it, she went to the secretary, took a traveller's flask from one of the shelves, and brought it back to Jack, kneeling on Ianto's other side.

          “He's coming around,” Jack said quietly.

          Ianto's eyes fluttered open. When he realized his situation he looked utterly mortified. He struggled to sit up.

          “No.” Toshiko pushed him back against Jack. “You've had a terrible shock. Drink this first.”

          She uncapped the flask and held it to his lips. He swallowed, then coughed as the fiery liquid traveled down his throat. When she tried to give him some more, he waved it away.

          “No, thank you, Your Highness. I would prefer to keep my stomach in one piece.” He struggled a little against Jack's restraining hands. “I'm fine, Jack. Please, just help me up.”

          Jack studied him for a moment, but stood up and offered his hand. Ianto took it and pulled himself up. He swayed a little when he got to his feet, but managed to keep his balance. He bowed to Toshiko, who was again seated on the sofa.

          “Your Highness, there's nothing I can do or say. I would insult you if I attempted to apologize.” He turned to Jack. “I won't stand in your way, Jack. All I ask is enough time to speak to my family.”

          “You don't trust me.”

          Ianto pulled back as if slapped. “You can say that after today?”

          “You trust me with your body. You don't trust me to help your family.”

          Toshiko gave a little cough that both men recognized immediately as a choked-off giggle. “Perhaps you should have this discussion somewhere else, gentlemen. But before you go, Lieutenant Jones, I should like to tell you that Jack is completely trustworthy. He will always protect those he loves.”

          She stood up, regal in her exotic finery, and they took it for the dismissal it was. They left the room walking stiffly distant from each other, Ianto first, then Jack. As they reached the top of the stairs, Jack turned abruptly towards Ianto.

          “We can talk in my study.”

          Ianto looked as if he were considering saying no, but finally nodded. “Very well.”

          Jack started down the stairs without looking back. He was seething with anger, even if part of his mind realized that Ianto had a great deal of reason for thinking as he did. He wanted Ianto to trust him completely, to give himself over to his care. It was foolish, he knew, but he couldn't help wanting it.

          As they reached the entry hall, there was a knocking on the door that turned into a mad hammering as the caller seemed to attempt to open the door by sheer force of sound. Draper emerged from the kitchen corridor shrugging into his coat and casting some rather imaginative aspersions on the person currently on their stoop. Jack and Ianto could not help but grin at each other. Once by the door, Draper shot his cuffs, straightened out his collar, fixed his face into the bland expression of the perfect butler, and opened the door to find a very young man dressed in the livery of a footman. He looked disheveled and out of breath, as if he had run the length of London.

          “I'm sorry to disturb you, sir,” he gasped, “but I'm trying to find master Ianto. Lieutenant Jones, that is.”

          Ianto stepped forward. “I'm here, Peter. What is it? What's wrong?”

          “I'm glad I found you, sir,” The young footman took a deep breath. “Master Stanley has us all scouring London for you. It's Sir Henry, sir. He's dead. He shot himself.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

          They found the Carstairs townhouse already enveloped in that peculiar gloomy activity that resulted from a death in the family. The door was already wreathed in black crepe ribbon. Inside, footmen were going to and fro with hushed steps. Smells of baking pastry issued from the direction of the kitchen, in preparation for the descent of family and close friends. Waters, the Carstairs butler, ushered them into the hall with what seemed to Ianto like a sigh of relief.

          “Thank God you are here, Master Ianto. Master Stanley is in the library.” Then, in a rush that seemed to pour out of him in spite of his years of training, “that's where we found Lord Carstairs, sir. Master Stanley… the new Lord Carstairs, that is… has been there for hours and won't come out. He's been drinking, sir.”

          The Carstairs library was a gentleman-scholar's domain. The room was lined with shelves, and those were crammed with books. A heavy desk was set facing the door. French doors behind the desk led to a small side garden and through that, to the back gate. A group of four leather armchairs, each flanked by a small table, faced the fireplace in a semicircle. Above the fireplace an oversized portrait of Lady Carstairs and her children, painted when all three were considerable younger, provided the only touch of softness.

          Stanley Carstairs was slumped in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He did not even look up as they walked in. On the small table next to him was a tumbler full of whiskey and some papers.

          “Come in, Ianto.”

          “Lord Monte Cristo is with me,” Ianto said. “He offered his assistance and I accepted.”

          “I'm glad. This seems to concern him anyway.”

          Ianto approached his oldest friend with a sense of dread. He cast a glance at the papers on the table and immediately recognized Lord Carstairs' spidery handwriting. “Where is Aunt Alice?”

          “Mother is upstairs with Aunt Gwen.” Stanley rubbed his face with both hands. “Thank God Branwen is with your mother. I sent someone off to Aunt Elspeth right away. She'll know how to handle it.”

          “Good.” Ianto pointed Jack to the one of the armchairs and took the other. “Now tell us what happened.”

          “That's the thing. Nobody knows. Father came down very early this morning and asked Waters to bring him a tray with coffee and some breakfast to the library. When Waters came in with the tray, Father told him he was not hungry and to take the breakfast away and leave the coffee, and not to let anyone, even Mother, disturb him. Waters was utterly shocked. You know how Father feels about Mother. Two hours later Annie, one of the downstairs maids, was passing through the hall when she heard the shot. She pounded on the door calling my father's name, but it was locked. She ran to the kitchen and got Waters. They broke the door down and found him seated at his desk. It looked like he had blown his brains out. Waters sent Peter to get me.”

          Jack spoke for the first time. “Did they find a gun?”

          Stanley nodded. “On the floor below his hand. That's why they thought...”

          “But you don't think so,” Jack said.

          “It's not that I don't believe that my father would not shoot himself. After reading that,” he pointed at the papers on the table, “I can well believe it. But he wouldn't do it while Mother was in the house. She's leaving tomorrow. All he had to do was wait twenty four hours. And then Waters brought my attention to the garden doors.”

          “The garden doors?” Ianto asked.

          “They were unlocked, and the curtains were drawn enough to let someone in. I went out into the garden. It rained last night and the ground is soft. There was one set of footprints leading to the doors and one leading away. Same boots.”

          “And after reading those papers you don't suspect me?” Jack said.

          “Your doings are pretty public these days. All I needed to do was to send a discreet servant around. You rode in the park this morning, then went on to breakfast with a number of very important people from the Foreign Office. Afterwards, you returned to your house and stayed there. Ianto arrived about two hours later.”

          “Good Lord.”

          Ianto couldn't help but laugh. “Gossip is London's most common form of currency, my lord.”

          “Ianto...”

          Ianto shook his head. “We cannot get into the habit of calling you by your real name. It could lead us to a public slip.”

          “All right,” Jack conceded. “But even if I didn't do it myself, I could have paid someone.”

          “Perhaps.” Stanley said. “But my father would not have opened those doors for just anyone. He would have let you in. Anyone he didn't know would have been received with a pistol at hand.”

          “So it had to be an intimate of this family,” Ianto said harshly.

          “It's not your father,” Stanley said. “I made sure of that too. Your father lost a great deal of money at White's yesterday, and returned home drunk. He put on one of his usual displays and passed out. He was taken to his room by his valet, with Draper's assistance. His valet stayed in the dressing room as he usually does in these circumstances. He's prepared to swear your father was still asleep at noon.”

          “Who, then?” Ianto asked.

          “Thomas.” Jack answered easily. “He was always obsessed with Whithorn. He will do anything to keep it.”

          “How could killing my father help him with that?”

          “It would guarantee your father’s silence. I think that if Annie had not come by at that time, you would have found a broken french door, a ransacked room, and probably a smashed desk. Thieves know that many of these have secret compartments. He would have taken a few trinkets and any coin he could find. Who would have doubted the story of the burglar?”

          Stanley sat up with a jerk. “Annie shouldn't have been in the hall at all, actually. Mother and Mrs. Waters were doing the final inventory before we close the house for the season, and Mother likes to have the maids come along to clean and fold and whatever it is that they do. She came downstairs because Mrs. Waters had forgotten something in her sitting room.”

          “Would Thomas have known about that?”

          Stanley nodded. “Mother visited Aunt Gwen yesterday. She said Uncle... she said Thomas was there for part of the time. He could have overheard their conversation. I'm sure today's plans were part of it.”

          “We have no proof.” Ianto said. “None.”

          “This is not a matter of proof,” Jack said coldly. “We aren't going to let this get anywhere near a court room or even worse, a parliamentary hearing. In the first place, the women of our families should not be forced to endure the scandal. In the second place, the government still has laws in place authorizing them to seize the property of traitors. I don't intend to let Whithorn pass to the Prince Regent and his friends.”

          Picking up the papers on the side table, Stanley offered them to Jack. “These are yours by moral right, if nothing else. According to my father, he was ready to call for a board of inquiry when Captain Jones and the Honourable Thomas Harkness showed him proof that it was his brother, my uncle, who was the real traitor. You were dead and your father's title and property were not in danger. On the other hand, his brother had just been killed in battle, and he himself had a young family to look after. He chose to believe there would be no repercussions.” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Your father, then Sir Owain Davidson, then Vennington's demands for funds...”

          “Oh God.” Ianto whispered. “Is there anything my father will not do?”

          Jack squeezed his hand. “It's got nothing to do with you. Either of you. You were both what, seven, eight?”

          “About that, yes.” Stanley hesitated. “I think you should know my father suspected Sir Thomas of murdering Lord Whithorn.”

          “I've long suspected it myself. My father was not the sort of man to kill himself.”

          “He certainly murdered Sir Owain, or at least, had it done. My father was horrified. He couldn't cut off contact with either Vennington or Whithorn. It would have looked extremely odd, considering the closeness of our mothers, and he was too afraid to attract any attention. But he did withdraw from all sorts of family events. From family life, really, except for mother, Branwen, and I.” He sighed. “Now what?”

          “Now you take your father's body home for burial,” Jack waved the papers in his hand. “Could Thomas know about the existence of these?”

          “No. A few years ago, father told me that, when he died, the first thing I should do was to look in the inner compartment of his desk. After they took the body upstairs and cleaned up, I opened it and found them. He came close to getting away with it, didn’t he?”

          “But he didn’t. Let him think he's done it. Make sure everyone spreads the burglar story around.” Jack turned to Ianto. “You should go with him. He shouldn't travel alone.”

          Ianto's eyebrow arched. “Robert Despenser will want to go with him. And Cameron should go too, I think. I'll follow in a few days.”

          "Ianto...”

          “I will not leave town while you deal with my father, Jack.”

          Stanley stood up. “I'll go upstairs and speak with mother about it.”

          He left the library at a rapid pace. Jack and Ianto sat and stared at each other locked into a silent battle of wills. Finally, Ianto couldn't stand it any longer.

          “May I ask you a question?” At Jack's nod, he continued. “If we hadn't... if we hadn't met, would you be so concerned about our families?”

          Jack shook his head. “Probably not. Andy talked to me about it and I told him if he wanted me to save all of you, he should think of a way because I wouldn't. Then I met you. It became personal. I wanted to save you. And then there were Cameron and Marianna.”

          “If life had gone as it should, they would be your children.”

          “Quite likely. And every time their friend Ianto came to visit I would admire him from afar.”

          Ianto laughed. “And I would spend my time trying to catch a glimpse of my friends' gorgeous father.”

          Jack smiled, but his eyes were sad. “Ianto, please go with Stanley. Stay out of this.”

          Ianto moved to kneel at Jack's side. “I can't. I'm sorry. I wish I could but I can't. All my life I've known my father was not a good man. He thinks of nothing but himself. He's a cold, vicious, grasping bully. Now I know he's also a murderer and a blackmailer. I don't think I can rest until he's punished as he deserves.” He rested his head on Jack's knee. “But even if I didn't want him punished, I have to be here. Someone has to be the public face of the family.”

          “Public face?”

          “The government is in great need of funds. Pontesbury is not a wealthy earldom. Between my grandfather and my father they have bled it nearly dry. But it's good land, and Alexander tells me that it is possible to turn it around. If the family is not seen to reject Father very publicly it would be easy for the government to sell the properties out from under Alexander, as they did to the Davidsons. Not to mention that it might spill over into Leominster.”

          “Chattisham has mentioned that there are rumours of several bills of attainder being drawn up. He tells me there hasn't been one for over thirty years but suddenly the government has decided to revive the practice. But Ianto...”

          Ianto pressed a finger to Jack's lips. “No. You can't buy it back for us. It would be an easy way out but it wouldn't be right. It would be seen as an act of magnanimity on your part but it wouldn't exonerate us.”

          “Remind me to introduce you to Andy,” Jack grumbled. “He's logical like that, too.”

          “I won't be at the card game, of course.” Ianto said. “I'll stay upstairs and come down when you request me to. But if we do it right, there’s nothing the government can do but accept the fait accompli.”

          “All right.” Jack briefly pressed his lips against Ianto’s. “We’ll do it your way.”

          A soft knock on the door pulled them apart. Ianto jumped up and stood by the fireplace, one hand on the mantelpiece. “Come in.”

          Gwen walked in. Nodding to Jack in passing, she walked up to Ianto and wrapped her arms around him. “Stanley told us about the documents he found. I am so sorry, sweetheart.”

          He returned the gesture. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Gwen. So sorry!”

          “You have nothing to be sorry about.” She smoothed his hair. “Nothing.”

          “I keep telling him that.” Jack drawled. “But he seems determined to take responsibility for his father.”

          “Not his father,” Gwen said fiercely. “His family. And don’t tell me you don’t understand it. Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

          “Stop, mother kestrel, I’m not threatening your chick.” Jack made a surrendering sort of gesture. “Is Marianna doing well?”

          “Yes. Very much improved, thanks to Doctor Harper. Mr. Williams brought me his recommendations. He has been most kind.”

          “That’s Rhys. Kind as he can be.” Jack grinned impudently at her. “Or did you mean Owen?” He laughed as Gwen smacked him on the arm for his impertinence. “Ouch! You still have a heavy hand.”

          “And don’t you forget it, or I’ll box your ears next time.” She smiled back, but suddenly turned serious. “What are you going to do, Jack?”

          “Mayhap it’s better if you don’t know, Gwen. Take Marianna and Cameron and accompany the Carstairs back to Longhope Abbey. From there, go to the Despensers until you hear from Ianto.” He kissed her forehead. “It will be all over soon.” 

         She gripped his hand. “Thank you.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

          Where have you been?” Andy asked Jack. “You're going to have a houseful of guests in less than two hours!”

          “With Wellington.” Jack handed his cloak and cane to Draper. “They want to send him on another one of those thankless diplomatic missions and he wanted to discuss it with me. He is off to Windsor this afternoon, and probably the continent in a few days.” He started up the stairs. “I told him our story. He’s agreed to present the documents to the right people in the Privy Council. Treason galls him. Do you have any news?”

          “Rhys met Lady Whithorn in the park this morning and took her and Marianna to Owen's office. Owen wanted to check Marianna again before they leave London tomorrow morning. Rhys says she's already much better. Sensation is returning to her legs.” Andy followed Jack into his sitting room. “How could her own father do that to her?”

          Jack shrugged out of his coat and tossed it to Mario. “Owen thinks it was meant to keep Marianna ill so Gwen would be unable to leave her for any long period of time. Thomas knows how much Gwen loves her children.” He hesitated. “And according to Gwen in his less sane moments he thinks Cameron and Marianna are mine.”

          Andy stared at him, flabbergasted. “Dear Heaven.”

          Jack let Mario pull off his boots. “Do we know where he is?”

          “Preparing to return to Whithorn, according to his valet. He told Draper that her ladyship and the children were expected to remain with the Carstairs for at least a month, but his lordship was going back to Scotland tonight.” He stood in his favorite spot by the windows. “I am glad of that. He sounds like someone about to snap.” He hesitated. ”I saw them yesterday at the park. From a distance.”

          Jack grinned. “Gwen is too old for you.”

          “Dammit, Jack!”

          The aggravated tone had Jack turning around to look at him. Andy had turned bright red and his hand held the ornate curtain in a death grip. “I know she is only sixteen,” he said, “but if all goes well and I can purchase my lands back from the Carstairs it will take me two or three years to reestablish myself and of course she might not be interested in any case...”

          Jack arrested the flood of words with a raised hand. “ _Paz_ , Andy. You have fallen for a pair of Harkness-blue eyes, have you? Well, good luck to you, my friend. I think nothing would have made my father happier than to have you marry into the family. Now go and get ready. Ianto will be here soon.”

          “Draper said he was here yesterday. For a while.” Andy refused to cower under Jack's frosty stare. “Don't give me that look. I don't pretend to understand your preferences, but God knows you have done more good in the world than all the so-called honourable men who would condemn you for choosing a man rather than a woman. Nothing would please me more than to see you happy with him.”

          “That's not in the cards for us, Andy. He's a young man who needs family and friends, a normal life. I can offer him none of that. Living in the shadows is not for someone like him.”

          “Don't make a Cheltenham tragedy out of this, Jack. You have enough money and friends to get away with it if there is no public scandal. Or do you think people in our set are so naïve as to believe that all those nice maiden ladies living with their dear companions are really spinsters with a horror of sex?” Andy nodded towards Mario. “And as far as the servants, you halfway walk on water anyway.”

          Jack burst into laughter. “Go! I am not the King of France that I need gentlemen dancing attendance on me in the bath.” As Andy opened the door, Jack said casually “and you won't need to buy back your lands. Carstairs's letter to his son instructs him to return them to you if you ever return to Britain.”

          He strolled into his dressing room, leaving a spluttering Andy behind. Discarding his breeches, he stepped into the tub full of steaming hot water scented with bergamot oil. He sighed in pleasure, resting his head against the edge of the tub and letting the heat work its magic on his muscles. The warmth and the soft scent soothed him. Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift.

          All the years he had waited and planned, and it all came down to this evening. Now that the end was in sight, he realized that he had never looked beyond it. At first it had been a passion to regain his own place, to revenge himself on those who had wronged him. That was still there, at bottom, but now there was also a deep need to protect those younger and less hardened than he was. But once that was accomplished, what then?

          Soon after arriving in England he had realized that he could not go back to being Jack Harkness. That boy was gone and in his place stood a man formed by long years in the Asturian mountains and the deserts of Africa. There were hundreds of people whose prosperity depended on his own, in Spain and in Africa, and even in Wales. When he had stepped into the shoes of the heir to Monte Cristo he had accepted all the responsibilities that came with the role. Whithorn was a dream of his childhood, but it would prosper in Cameron's hands. He would help as much as he could, of course, but that was someone else's future, not his.

          And there was Ianto. Damn Andy for putting ideas in his head. He was right; there were ways in which he and Ianto could be together, not openly perhaps, but with the acceptance of a small circle of friends. But there was a risk that some of Ianto's family would never accept his choice and Jack couldn't bear to see Ianto ostracized, and, worse, he couldn't bear to have Ianto come to regret his choice. No, in spite of the possibilities that his money could buy for them, it was best if Ianto lived the life he was supposed to. That much Jack could salvage for him. For all of them.

          He soaped and rubbed, getting the smell of the city out of his skin. He was debating getting the bucket of clean water himself or bellowing for Mario when the door behind him opened. “Mario,” Jack spoke without opening his eyes, “come and sluice me down, would you?”

          “It's not Mario,” Ianto said, “but I can perform the office.”

          He came into the room, locking the door behind him. Jack watched him. Ianto was wearing his full dress uniform. The red jacket and sash defined his torso and shoulders. The breeches hugged his legs to showcase his muscles perfectly. His boots gleamed. Jack felt himself get hard just from watching him walk across the room.

          “Up,” Ianto said with a slight smirk. The smirk widened as Jack stood up and Ianto noticed his lover’s arousal. Leaning close, he pulled Jack down for a passionate kiss. “Tonight, after this is all over, we’ll deal with that.”

          “Promise?”

          “Promise.” He flung half the water over Jack. “Turn around.” He repeated the gesture, then shook out one of Jack’s large toweling sheets. “Here.”

          “No, no!” Mario burst in and grabbed the sheet out of Ianto’s hands. “You must be the perfect English soldier tonight, _Don_ Ianto. We don’t have time to press your uniform if it becomes wet. Now, you go to _Doña_ Toshiko while I take care of _Don_ Edmundo. The guests will be arriving soon.”

          Jack burst into laughter at Ianto’s expression. “We are all ruled by Mario. Go. I’ll see you later.”

          “All right.” Ianto reached out and touched Jack’s hand. “Good luck.”

          “To all of us.”

          Jack allowed himself to be fussed over by Mario until he stood in front of the mirror in his usual impeccable evening clothes. Mario studied his creation complacently.

          “ _Bien._ Now one more thing.” He opened the armoire and retrieved a small box. “Here.”

          Jack opened it. A pin made from an emerald carved with the Monte Cristo arms surrounded by small pearls rested on a bed of white satin. “Father’s pin.”

          “No. Your pin. After tonight, Jack Harkness will be avenged and the Count of Monte Cristo will step fully into his inheritance.”

          Jack gripped Mario’s shoulder for a moment. “Very well, then. Thank you.” He pinned the emerald among the perfect folds of his cravat. “Ready.”

          He went downstairs just in time to greet his guests. They had been chosen very carefully. Lord and Lady Bathurst, the Marquess and Marchioness of Chattisham, Lady Alford, Sir George Bowyer, Major MacLeod. All were from the top drawer of society, but more to the point, all had spent considerable time and effort in the service of their country, and would take a dim view of one of their own turning traitor. Vennington was surrounded.

          Draper had set the card tables in the study. Standing candelabra had been set on either side of the fireplace and in the niches between the windows. A large sideboard had been placed against the windows on the opposite side from the desk, and a cold collation and decanters set out. Over the mantelpiece, two large bowls of hothouse roses gently scented the air.

          “My dear boy,” Lady Alford exclaimed, “you have done wonders with this place. Last time I saw it the curtains were the most dreadful puce shade with gold trim.”

          “I will convey your appreciation to my ward and her staff. The decoration of the house was her doing.”

          “Will we meet her someday?” Lady Alford said in a low voice. “The worst sort of rumours are flying about. Of course, we do our best to stop them, but it is never enough.”

          “There is a good chance you will meet her soon.” He whispered back, the continued in his normal voice, “I am afraid we are an uneven number. The Duke was summoned to Windsor post-haste this afternoon.”

          “Yes. A flare-up of the Crimea business, I’m afraid,” Sir George said. “Is your young man of business around, Monte Cristo? I have nothing but good reports of him. Perhaps he can join us. In this setting there is no impropriety, surely.”

          “Of course not,” the Marchioness of Chattisham said. She was notoriously high in the instep, so her approval led to a general sigh of relief. “Do ask him, my lord.”

          Jack pulled the bell, and upon Draper’s deferential appearance, he instructed the butler to request “Stratton” to join them. A few minutes later Andy walked in, austere and elegant in evening clothes. “My lord.”

          “John, I wonder if you could join us? We are an uneven number tonight.”

          Andy bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

          The Marchioness and Lady Alford having decided to sit out the game for a while in favour of a good gossip in one of the comfortable sofas by the fireplace, the rest sorted themselves into two tables. Conversation and alcohol flowed freely. Jack sat next to Vennington. This time, he made sure the man lost heavily. He had the man’s financial measure to the last groat, and he knew exactly the moment when Vennington reached the nadir of his fortunes.

          “I’m tired of being bank,” he announced, getting up and strolling towards the sideboard. As he passed the bell pull he gave a discreet tug. “Lady Alford, would you care to sit in?”

          The shrewd eyes raked him from hair to shoes. “No, child, I don’t think so. I am quite comfortable here. Mr. Stratton,” she called, “do let Lady Chattisham sit in. Come join me and keep me amused.”

          “Yes, my lady.”

          Andy bowed to the Marchioness and held her chair while she sat, then went to sit on the sofa next to the redoubtable grande dame. Jack gave him a discreet eye-roll as he passed them. Taking his seat again, he passed the bank to Vennington.

          “Since Lady Alford has let us all down by choosing to flirt with a pretty face instead of play, it’s your turn, Vennington.”

          Laughter met his sally, especially from the aforementioned lady. The game resumed and the tide seemed to turn in Vennington’s favour. His eyes grew feverish as the guineas piled up in front of him. The bets grew larger. By common consent, Sir George and Lady Bathurst dropped out. The others gathered around to watch. Finally, Jack was left with almost nothing in front of him.

          “You are very lucky tonight, Vennington. I suppose I will have to…. No wait. Andy, bring me the emeralds.”

          Andy raised his eyebrows and tightened his lips but he obeyed, taking a small crystal bowl from one of the book shelves and placing it on the table. It was half-way full with cut emeralds that gleamed in the candle light. The ladies were heard to gasp in awe.

          “Will you accept this instead of guineas, Vennington?” Jack asked.

          The man nodded, speechless. He waited until Jack had placed the bowl of emeralds, then he dealt the cards. Everyone gasped as they realized what had happened. “You lose, Monte Cristo.”

          Jack shrugged. “A hazard of the game.”

          He extended his hand and Vennington took it. Suddenly, Jack pulled down on their joined hands until they were pointing straight down at the floor and, with the other hand, pressed down against Vennington’s elbow. Two cards shot out of the Commodore’s sleeve to lay on the carpet.

          “Good God!” Sir George gasped. “What is the meaning of this, Vennington?”

          The Commodore gawped like a fish. His mouth moved but nothing came out. Jack released his hand. Andy reached down and picked up the cards and tossed them on the table.

          “The Commodore cheats,” Jack said dispassionately. “I have been watching him for a few days. Tonight was in the nature of a test.”

          “Which he obviously failed.” Major McLeod growled. “But if you knew he was cheating, why didn’t you expose him publicly?”

          Lady Alford snorted. “His family, Major. Obviously, Monte Cristo did not want the younger generation ostracized for their father’s sins.”

          “Lady Alford is right,” Jack said. “But there is a little more to it than that. Cheating at cards is the least of Vennington’s sins.”

          Vennington had been staring at Jack as if hypnotized. Now he jumped up, reaching out for Jack’s neck with both hands. “Whithorn was right. He was right! I should have killed you in Egypt. I should have made sure you were dead myself!”

         Jack grabbed Vennington’s wrists and pushed him down into the chair. “Yes, you should have. But you have a long history of leaving things half-done, don’t you, Oliver? I’m not the last one you left for dead or worse. Blackmailer, rapist, murderer, traitor. Cardsharp is clean compared to those.”

          Lady Alford moved until she was standing next to Jack. Her hand came up to rest, trembling, against his cheek. “Jack?”

          He took her hand in one of his. “Yes, Aunt Caroline?”

          “Oh, child.” She seemed at a loss for anything else to say, so she rounded on Vennington. “What did you do, you miserable worm? What did you do?”

 


	12. Chapter 12

          “I should begin by saying that Wellington is appraised of all that I am about to tell you, and he carries proof of it with him to his meeting with the Prince Regent and the Privy Council. There are copies on my desk which will be turned over to Sir George.”

          He knew they had understood his meaning. Experienced in the ways of power, they knew the Crown’s hunger for revenue would be checked; there were few who dared gainsay the Duke these days. They also understood that they had been convened as an unofficial Court of Inquiry on behalf of those in the Government who wished the matter resolved without scandal. Nothing would ever be spoken or acknowledged, but their decision would be binding.

          At Jack’s request they had arranged themselves on the sofas. Vennington still sat at the table, with Andy and Major MacLeod standing guard. Jack stood by the fireplace, one hand on the mantel.

          “The story starts with a young fool of a Scotsman with a dream of adventure. His father wanted him to attend Oxford and then go back home to start learning to manage the estates he would one day inherit. But at seventeen, he wanted to go to war, see the world. Finally his father gave in and bought him a commission in the Royal Navy.”

          He gave a rueful shake of the head. “It was a hard life, but not a bad one. He served on a ship captained by a good officer, Captain Carstairs, who boasted of his own Scottish blood and who undertook to train him properly. He made friends, especially another young lieutenant named Oliver Jones. And then came the battle of the Nile, and at the end of it, his Captain was dead and he himself stood accused of treason.”

          “I remember now,” Sir George said. “Lieutenant Jack Harkness. Your father was... good God, you are now... Viscount Whithorn and Glasserton. One of the oldest titles in Scotland. I was a comparative youngster in those days. I remember the upheaval in the Ministry. The whole thing seemed beyond belief.”

          “Belief being the only thing that seemed to support the charges,” said Lady Aldford acidly. “Whatever evidence was taken into account to declare him a traitor was locked away under the pretext of state secrets. Those of us who objected were swept aside. Jack was a dead traitor and that was that as far as those in power were concerned. Then a few months later came the murders of Lord Whithorn and Sir Owain Davidson...”

          She whipped around to stare at Andy, who bowed to her, smiling whimsically.

          “Surely,” Lady Chattisham said, “if you were one of us, they would have brought you back to England for trial. Even if the evidence was conclusive, nothing else would have been acceptable.”

          “I was indeed taken off my ship and put on a fast frigate to London.” Jack told her. “The night before we were to sail, my friend came to see me. He told me he had overheard our attaché talking to the frigate’s captain. The attaché was extremely angry. He told the captain that he was afraid I would be made a scapegoat to protect the higher ups in Whitehall. My friend proposed that I should escape and the two of us sail back to London on a merchantman to present our side of the story in person.” He looked at them with a small, sad smile. “I did mention I was young and stupid, did I not? Escape was not difficult. My friend had bribed the two guards. He told me there was a ship at anchor in a bay outside of Cairo. On the way there we were attacked by a band of men, probably grave robbers. I was beaten and left for dead in the desert.”

          Lady Alford made as if to stand up and then sank back down, one hand over her face. Lady Bathurst placed a consoling arm around her shoulders.

          “I was in the sun for two days and two nights, as far as we were able to figure out later. But then I had the greatest stroke of luck of my life. A Spanish nobleman with a keen interest in Egyptian antiquities had a house near the sea, on the edge of the desert. Two of his servants returning from the market in Cairo spotted me, and when they realized I was still alive they loaded me on a donkey and took me home to their master, the Count of Monte Cristo. The old gentleman called a doctor who spent more than 8 hours setting my bones and cleaning and stitching my wounds with the help of one of the Count's servants, an Asturian called Mario. The doctor told them all not to expect miracles, gave instructions to Mario and to the Count's housekeeper, and left convinced he would return only to attend a funeral.”

          “Good God.” Lord Chattisham tossed back a full tumbler of whiskey.

          “Obviously you survived,” Sir George said drily. “Must be that Scottish constitution one hears so much about. However, one question remains. All of these events took place more than twenty years ago. Why didn't you return home as soon as you had recovered?”

          “It will all make sense once you've heard the whole story.”

          “The lies, you mean!” shouted Vennington. “It's all lies.”

          Andy tapped him none too gently on one shoulder. “Be silent, Lord Vennington. You've done enough talking for all of your life.”

          “Who in the devil do you think you are?”

          “I am Sir Andrew Davidson, only son and heir of Sir Owain Davidson, and you helped murder my father. I would advise you not to play games with me.”

          The statement drew startled gasps and exclamations from the assembly. Sir George merely raised an eyebrow and turned back to Jack.

          “Pray continue, your Lordship.”

          “Maryam, the Count's housekeeper, had found a letter from my father tucked inside one of my boots. I had been stripped of everything else, so it would seem they found it too difficult to remove them. He decided to go to Cairo himself and inform the British authorities that their missing sailor had been found, but when he got there he found the whole place in an uproar. He had some acquaintance with one of the attachés, and had the whole official line from him. Jack Harkness was a traitor. He evidence against him was obtained by Lieutenant Oliver Jones, who had chased Lieutenant Harkness into the desert and had found his body and buried it. It seemed Oliver Jones was working with Captain Carstairs to uncover Lieutenant Harkness' crimes. That puzzled the Count, because some of the contents of the letter seemed to imply very different things. So he kept silent and returned home.”

          “But why?” Lady Chattisham asked. “Surely, a traitor... why would he protect you?”

          Jack grinned at her. “For that, you have to know a little about the nature of the Monte Cristos. We have a tendency to tilt at windmills. As I said, the Count returned home and sent Mario to Cardiff, to confer with an old friend of the family, Rhodri Williams. Then he settled in to wait for me to wake up.”

          “How bad was it?” Captain MacLeod, a veteran of many battles, formal and informal, spoke up for the first time.

          “I was in a coma for three months. After that, I drifted in and out of consciousness for another two. Then I had a relapse. The coma lasted six weeks this time. I don’t remember most of it.” Jack accepted the brandy glass Andy offered. “When I finally woke up clear-headed enough to answer questions, I couldn’t remember anything. Even my name.”

          “Not unusual if you’ve had head injuries,” Captain MacLeod said. “Memories come back slowly, if at all.”

          “Yes,” Jack agreed. “The Count explained what he had found out. I was terrified. Was I a traitor to my country? Could I truly have passed secrets to the enemy? Who was this Jack Harkness? Then Mario returned with the news of my father’s suicide, the murder of Sir Owain Davidson, and my posthumous indictment by a so-called Inquiry Board that consisted of a single individual.” He shrugged. “I didn’t remember any of the events prior to the coma, and certainly didn’t remember any of the people involved. Returning to England seemed pointless. The Count agreed.”

          He tossed back the brandy. “He saw further into the future than I did, I think. While I was recovering, he started teaching me. Languages, history, literature, sciences, business, everything he considered a requirement for a proper gentleman. When I was able to travel he took me to the Monte de Cristo and then to the Castillo in Asturias. We traveled extensively over Africa and Europe. I became his assistant in all ways. Then, one day, out of the blue, he asked me to become his son. He said that had obtained the King’s permission for an adoption that would include titles as well as properties.”

          “Titles?” Lady Bathurst asked. “More than one?”

          For the first time that night, Jack’s laugh held real amusement. “I am Conde de Montecristo, Marqués de Corvera de Asturias, Señor de Castillón, Nava, and San Martín, and grandee of Spain several times over. Not bad for a Border lordling.”

          “Indeed.” Sir George said. “One question. When did you recover your memories? Because when you spoke about the battle and its aftermath, you weren’t speaking as someone one step removed from the events.”

         “No,” Jack agreed. “That happened three years later. We had returned to Egypt for another winter of archaeology. One day we were going past the slave market when father noticed a young girl for sale. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but she held herself as if she were a queen. Oddest still was that she was an oriental. We had met some Mongols during our travels, and even a Chinese sailor or two, so we immediately recognized what she was. There were some old men bidding for her and the price was going up fast. She kept her face carefully blank, but there was terror in her eyes. Father stepped in and bought her for about three times what the others could afford.”

          “Best purchase he ever made,” Andy said softly.

          “Yes. To our surprise we found out she could speak some English. She told us that her family had been murdered by Englishmen and she herself taken to sell in the market. She told us the name of the ship’s Captain was Oliver Jones. She also told us that the ship’s surgeon, one Owen Harper, had tried to help her and had nearly gotten himself killed for his trouble and was on the run. She also told us her name.” For the first time since he had started talking he looked directly at Vennington. “You really know how to make enemies, don’t you, Oliver? The man you murdered that day was the brother of one of the most powerful rulers in Japan, and the girl you kidnapped was his daughter, the Lady Hachisuka Toshiko.”

          Sir George sat up with a jolt. “Hachisuka? The daimyo of Tokushima? He closed his ports to our ships fourteen years ago on some trumped up….” He stopped at the sight of Jack shaking his head.

          “No trumped up charge. Truth.”

          “Prove it!” Vennington screamed at him. “It’s a fine tale you tell, but where is your proof?”

          Jack went to the bell pull and tugged on it. A few minutes later, the door opened and Toshiko stood on the doorway. She wore the Court robes of a Japanese princess. Her effect on Vennington was not lost on the assembled group. He turned crimson, then went pale. Then his eyes shifted and he caught sight of the man standing behind Toshiko.

          “Ianto! What are you doing here?”

          Ianto studied his father as if he were an exotic animal in the zoo. “Representing our family.”

          Vennington laughed contemptuously. “I represent our family, boy. You’re nothing, less than nothing!”

          “You will find,” Sir George said in his usual pleasant manner, “that depending on our decision, you may not even represent yourself. Your Highness, Lieutenant Jones, please join us.”

          Toshiko and Ianto entered the room. Ianto took one of the chairs near Jack’s desk and moved it to the other side of the fireplace, across from Jack. He bowed to Toshiko in his most formal manner and held out the chair for her. As she sat down, she smiled at him and patted his hand. Ianto bowed again and then went to stand next to Andy.

          “Very well, then.” Sir George seemed to have taken control of the assembly. “Please continue, Monte Cristo.”

          “My father sent people to look for Harper. They found him several days later, and brought him back to the house. The moment I saw him, it all came flooding back. He was one of the few people who had stood up for me and insisted I be taken to London rather than summarily executed.”

          “I assume he’s somewhere about waiting to give evidence if necessary?” At Jack’s nod, Sir George continued. “Now comes the most important question of all. Why?”

          “Money,” Jack replied. “The family was impecunious and Oliver always gambled beyond his means. He was approached by my uncle, Thomas Harkness, who had heard his name from my father, and offered a rather large sum to get rid of me. My uncle wanted my title and my fiancée, you see.”

          “Dear God,” Lady Alford, who had been listening silently. “Gwen… does she know?”

          Jack nodded. “She knows.”

          “That still leaves us with the traitor,” Lord Chattisham said. “Because there certainly was one. We spent a great deal of time and money looking for _l’eccosais_.”

          “Carstairs?” Sir George asked Jack.

          “Not Sir Henry. The Captain. Somehow Vennington came upon some documents that revealed who it was. Most of our senior officers had been killed in the battle, and he had assumed command. That gave him access to the Captain’s private papers.”

          “Sir George,” Ianto spoke up, “I think you should know that I overheard a conversation between my father, Lord Harkness, and Sir Henry Carstairs. I have written down the details. It confirms much of what you’ve heard…”

          "And you?” sir George asked Major MacLeod. “You were ready to invite Vennington into our group. I thought it odd at the time.”

          The major shrugged. “MacLeods and Harknesses often hunt in pairs. When…”

          His explanation was cut off by a commotion in the hall. The door was flung open, and Rhys Williams stood in the doorway.

          “Jack! Lord Whithorn has taken Marianna!”

 


	13. Chapter 13

          “Jack, wait!”

          Ianto’s urgent tone stopped Jack in his tracks. From the moment Rhys had burst into the room, he had been focused on the need to get Marianna back. He had summoned Draper to the study and was in the middle of issuing a stream of orders when Ianto spoke up.

          “What is it?”

          Ianto tried to organize his thoughts. He knew Jack would take a lot of convincing. “Something’s not right about this. As far as I know from the conversation I overheard, and from what you have said, Lord Whithorn has always acted logically. This move seems at cross-purposes to his best interests. Why would he change now?”

          “Perhaps he’s acting out of desperation,” Sir George pointed out. “He has lost everything.”

          “Has he?” Ianto said. “As it stands, the only crimes we have real evidence for, the kind that will stand to legal scrutiny, are those committed by my father and Sir Henry. We can prove Jack was not _l’ecossais._ We can prove that my father framed him for espionage and abandoned him in the desert to die. But all we really have as proof that Lord Whithorn was the instigator is my recollection of an overheard conversation and Sir Henry’s letter.”

          “We still have those two things.” Andy said, then his eyes widened as the implications hit home. “But if you were both gone…”

          “It doesn’t even need that. Everyone knows my relations with my father are, at best, strained. They could make a case I misunderstood what I heard or even that I was making it up because I hate him. And if some of the documents Lady Toshiko has been working on were to go missing, say, in a fire, even more dust would be thrown up.”

          “And the more dust the more likely that society would give him the benefit of the doubt,” Jack said. “He would lose the title and might be ostracized, but there would be no criminal charge.”

          “So you think he has taken Marianna as a hostage to force Monte Cristo to give him the letter?” Sir George asked.

          Ianto shook his head. “No. I think he is using Marianna as a distraction. He expects us to set out hell-for-leather for Scotland to rescue her, leaving the townhouse much less protected. If he can but set a fire, he could throw everything into confusion.”

          “He would be traveling by coach,” Jack said thoughtfully. “He has to know he could be overtaken by men riding fast horses. So he must have laid a false trail for us to follow. A man and a young girl, traveling in a private coach using the main roads.”

          Ianto gave a sigh of relief. Jack had grasped what he meant. “Exactly. And by the time we caught up with them, it would be too late.”

          “But if this is all true,” Rhys spoke up, “where is Marianna?”

          “Here in London somewhere.” Ianto answered. “I’m sure Lord Whithorn has a bolt hole he could keep her in for a day or two.”

          “Ianto, how can you be so sure?” Andy asked.

          Ianto said softly. “Because when this gentleman burst in, I was looking at my father. And he smiled. We, all his children, have learned to fear that smile.”

          Andy grabbed Vennington by the collar. “Do you know where Marianna is?”

          “How would I?” Vennington said, still smiling. “I may work with Lord Whithorn from time to time, but we are hardly good friends. And before anyone gets the idea that a beating can get you information, I was in the Royal Navy for fifteen years. I can withstand a great deal of pain.”

          “That’s true,” Ianto said. “The only thing he has never been is a physical coward.”

          Into the sudden silence came the sound of a blade being pulled from its sheath. Every eye swiveled to where Toshiko was sitting. She had been quiet throughout the discussion, almost as if she were not listening at all. Now she stood up, heavy robes rustling, and walked to where Vennington was sitting. In her hand was a wicked-looking knife, its delicately engraved blade glinting in the candlelight.

          “In my country, the greatest warriors have a custom,” she said. “When they are disgraced, they cleanse their honour by committing suicide. Sometimes, it happens that one compounds his dishonour by refusing to do so. In those cases, the women of his family attended to the matter themselves.”

          “And you think you can do that to me?” Vennington jeered.

          “It was considered fitting,” she said as if he had not spoken, “that the punishment fit the crime. In some cases, the dishonoured man was kept alive for a period of time. It is not difficult to do, provided that one has a sharp enough blade. This is a Toledano knife. It was made two centuries ago by one of the greatest Arab sword makers in Spain and it still keeps its edge. I can decapitate a cat with it and it will continue to walk, unaware that it is dead.”

          The softly-spoken words chilled the blood of everyone present. Beads of sweat appeared in Vennington’s forehead. “Sir George, Cattisham, will you allow this barbarian to murder me?”

          Sir George took a step towards them. “My dear Lady…”

          “I am not your dear lady,” Toshiko said, and her tone of voice never changed. “I am Her Royal Highness the Princess Toshiko, niece, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter of the greatest daimyos of Japan. This man shot my father from hiding rather than face his challenge. Then he raped my mother. When he could no longer perform he gave her and her ladies-in-waiting to his men. It took my mother eighteen hours to die. And then he stole me away and sold me in a slave market in Cairo. Do not even think to presume to tell me what I can or cannot do to this piece of offal.”

          Sir George stood frozen to the spot, his face red, unable to find words that could forestall the violence that had suddenly materialized in the room from such an unexpected source. He looked helplessly at Jack, who shrugged.

          “I promised the Lady Toshiko that she could choose her vengeance.”

          “Indeed.” Lady Alford came to stand at Toshiko's side. “It would be best, I think, if the rest of us leave the room. In that way we can say with a clear conscience that we cannot be certain of what happened.”

          “I agree,” Lady Chattisham stood up, shaking her skirts. “This is not a court of law. The niceties need not be observed quite as punctiliously.”

          As the ladies started leaving the room, the men stared at each other. It was Major MacLeod who moved first, offering his arm to Lady Bathurst and leading her towards the door. Toshiko smiled down at Vennington. What he saw in her face broke his nerve.

          “No! Wait! I know where Whithorn is. I’ll tell you! Just keep her away from me!”

          “So tell us,” Andy’s voice was a harsh rasp. “And if you lie to us, I will not only let her have you but will suggest improvements in technique.”

          “He owns a house on Great Surrey Street, near Black Friars’ Bridge. He’s most likely taken her there. I can describe it for you.”

          “He probably has people watching this house.” Ianto said. “We need to pretend we’ve fallen for the trap. They will be expecting Jack and Andrew to ride to the rescue. Two men leave the house, get on the right horses, and run in the right direction. The rest of us go to Southward.”

          “Which two?’ Andy demanded. “Because I‘m not leaving London with Marianna in danger.”

          “They won’t be close enough to recognize features. Grosvenor Street is too well lit for that, and they would be spotted by the Watch.” Major MacLeod said. “I could pass for Monte Cristo if I wear his cloak, especially if there are servants and others around calling me by his name. It won’t matter who else goes, because all the attention will be centered on me.”

          “I will go with you,” Rhys said. “If the watchers are Whithorn House servants, they will know I was there earlier. They will assume Lady Whithorn sent me to warn Jack.”

          “Good.” Jack turned to Draper. “How soon can we get this arranged?”

          “Twenty minutes, my lord.” Draper said with his usual aplomb. “When I let Mr. Williams in, I presumed you would need conveyance of some kind. I asked Tim and Pedro to hold themselves in readiness. I believe we would be even more convincing if they are seen running towards the stables. Then we can send two of the footmen by a more circuitous route to get horses ready for the rest of you and have them brought to the mews.”

          “Perfect.”

          “One last thing,” Sir George said, “I think it will be best if Vennington comes with me. No offense, Your Highness. And please do not worry. I’ll make sure he regrets what he did for the rest of his days. Australia is hot and uncomfortable, and we have need of laborers for our building projects there. Monte Cristo, I will borrow one of your footmen.”

          The charade was acted out. Guests were seen to be leaving. Sir George could be heard instructing Jack to send the reports to his office the next morning at first light. Twenty minutes later Al Sidi and Rhys’s horse were at the townhouse steps, saddled and waiting. Major MacLeod and Rhys mounted and thundered down Grosvenor Street. The lamps in front of the townhouse were extinguished by a worried-looking Draper, while Mario lamented that his master had not taken him along.

          Fifteen minutes after that, the servant’s door that led to the mews behind the house opened and three men filed out to mount the horses that were waiting for them. Ianto led the way, followed by Andy. Jack brought up the rear. Ianto led them to Regent Street and from there to the Strand, New Bridge Street and across Black Friars’ Bridge.

          Once in Great Surrey Street, it was easy to find the house, a two story building with a printer's shop in the ground floor. A narrow alley next to it led to an inner garden area shaded by overhanging first floor balconies. They secured the horses to the iron bars on the ground floor window, under the balcony, and searched, mostly by feel, for the rear door Vennington had assured them was there. They found it almost immediately. Jack tested the handle and found that although locked, it was not barred. He set his shoulder to the wood and felt Ianto do the same thing behind him. They shoved hard and heard the slide bolt tear out of its pins.

          The room beyond was clearly a store room. Past a curtained entrance was the shop itself, with the stairwell to the upper floors accessible through a small door on one side. There did not seem to be anyone in the place; even the tiny noises common to a sleeping household were absent. Nevertheless, both Andy and Ianto drew their swords.

          They took the stairs as quietly as they could. As they reached the first floor landing, Jack suddenly put out a hand to stop the other two from moving. There were people on this floor. The door at the end of the short corridor was ajar and the flicker of candlelight came from inside the room.

          “Come in, Jack.”

          As Jack started towards the door, Andy cut in front of him. “Let's not give him the chance.”

          Reaching the door, Ianto and Andy positioned themselves on either side. Andy reached out and gave the door a shove, sending it flying against the wall. Nothing happened.

          “No dramatics, please.” The voice was weary. “I don't have a weapon.”

          “Would you mind if I didn't quite believe you?” Andy said in the courteous manner reserved for a ballroom. “You have tried to kill Jack twice.”

          There was the sound of liquid being poured, followed by the thump of something on a table. “There isn't going to be a third time.”

          They inched slowly into the room, still looking for hidden dangers. In the gloomy light cast by two candles set in pewter holders on a bedside table, they could see a sparsely furnished room; other than the table, only a simple bed at one end under the window and a table and two chairs by the fireplace. Marianna was asleep on the bed, curled on her side. Andy ran to her.

          “I gave her something to make her sleep. She will be fine.”

          Thomas Harkness sat on one of the chairs, a tankard of beer in front of him. Ianto, who had known him all his life, saw him now in comparison to Jack, and felt a small frisson of compassion. Thomas was a Harkness, but everything that was vital and powerful in Jack and Cameron seemed washed out and pale in him. How he must have hated knowing that everyone could see that something was missing in him, something that he himself believed made him somehow less than the others. And now, haggard and tired, with his faded blue eyes dulled with grief and fatigue, it was even more obvious.

          “I promised myself,” Thomas said to Jack, “that if you went haring off to Scotland I would go through with it. I told myself it would prove you were not as intelligent as you had always been thought to be.”

          Jack walked slowly to the table and sat down across from Thomas. “I promised myself if I ever faced you I would ask you why before I killed you. My father loved you. I loved you. You put me on my first pony and showed me how to use a salmon reel. Why, Uncle Thomas?”

          The other man started to laugh but the sound ended in a sob. “Do you know how hard it is to hear people say in your hearing that it was a wonderful thing there was a true heir to Whithorn at last? I had been my brother's heir for thirty five years. Worked tirelessly to maintain the estates. And then Margaret goes and conceives at an age when women are already grandmothers, and produces the golden child. A true Harkness!” He tossed back his beer. “I hated you from the day you were born.”

          “And your brother?”

          Thomas slammed the tankard down. “That was his own fault! He should have just stopped, accepted... but he never would. Or your father,” he said, pointing at Andy with an unsteady finger. “Stubborn bastards both of them. God, I'm tired.” He grinned at Jack, a death's head bearing of teeth. “And I've taken your revenge from you, boy. I'm already dead.”

          Jack grabbed his hand and forced it open. A small purple glass vial rolled out.

          “When I heard the door downstairs, I knew I had miscalculated once more.” Thomas groaned. “All the mistakes... I'm tired, Jack.”

          His head lolled back, and then, slowly, his body slid sideways out of the chair to lay crumpled on the floor at Jack's feet. The three men stared down at him in silence.

          “So it's finally over,” Andy said harshly. “Do me a favour, Jack.”

          “What?”

          “Take Ianto away to Monte de Cristo, or to Duradero, or Cairo. Travel the world. Take Tosh home if she wishes to go. Be who you truly are. God, there's been so much death, just because this one man couldn't stomach who and what he was. Don't do this to yourself. Please.”

          Jack reached for Ianto's hand. “No. I won't.”


	14. Chapter 14

_We buried Uncle Ianto yesterday, next to Uncle Jack. He had requested a simple private service, but it was not to be. Neighbours started arriving at the gates before sunrise, wanting only to say good-bye. By eight we had to arrange for some sort of seating for the old folk and the women. We threw the chapel doors open and asked some of them in, and put benches outside for the rest. The men, including Edmund, Andrew, and little Juan, stood throughout. Afterwards, everyone accompanied the coffin to the family crypt. The line seemed to go on for miles._

_The signs of affection and respect for Uncle Ianto have surprised the new priest very much. Father Alvarez has very strong opinions about sin, and cannot understand how the staunchly Catholic people of Asturias came to take him to their hearts. He tried to insinuate that it was only fear for their livelihoods if they offended the Monte Cristos that kept them from ostracizing Uncle Ianto, or even worse. He doesn’t seem to understand that Uncle Ianto spent sixty years of his life helping and caring for them. People around here still tell stories of the year of the plague, when most of the wealthy fled the district, but he and Uncle Jack converted one of the castle wings into a hospital to take care of the sick, and travelled through the countryside bringing food and medicine._

_Father Alvarez was most shocked by the outcry raised when he suggested – out of our hearing, of course – that it was improper for Uncle Ianto to be buried in the crypt itself, but that it would be possible to make an exception and bury this unredeemed sinner in the graveyard among the other family retainers. I am told that Sor Isabel, the Abbess of the convent of the Hospitalarias de San José, who worked with Uncle Ianto and Uncle Jack during the plague year and later to set up hospitals for the poor all over Asturias, told him that she herself did not feel qualified to tell the Almighty who should or should not enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but that of her own experience if good works counted for something, “Don Ianto” was already singing in the Heavenly choir. She also pointed out that if Uncle Ianto was not entitled to redemption, neither was Uncle Jack – and did he really want to start his religious career by offending one of the oldest and wealthiest aristocratic families in Spain? After that little conversation the silence from the Father Alvarez quarter has been well-nigh deafening._

_Andrew starts for Cardiff in a few days, so I will entrust this letter to him. We are all well, and I am expecting again. Edmund is very excited, and wishes for another daughter, but Juan says, in his very best imperious Harkness manner, that one sister is enough and he wishes for a brother. If I try to accommodate them both, I shall end up with twins!_

_All my love to Aunt Caroline, and I remain, as always, your loving niece,_

_Mary, Countess of Monte Cristo_

_  
_

          Sir Cameron Harkness folded the letter. “And now they are all gone. Mama, Rhys, Doctor Harper, Lady Toshiko, Andy, Uncle Jack. Uncle Ianto was the last.”

          His sister Marianna, the Dowager Lady Davidson, smiled mistily. “They had happy lives, in spite of all the tragedies. I knew Ianto would not last long after Jack died. They couldn’t bear to be separated for long, either one of them.”

         Caroline Harkness put side her embroidery, reaching for her husband’s hand and holding it between hers. “I remember my coming out ball. They were back in Britain for your mother’s wedding to Rhys. They both danced with me, and then Jack took me over to the settee where grandmother was holding court and told her _Aunt Caroline_ , _I believe your namesake will make a wonderful Viscountess_. He had noticed the way I was looking at you, you see.”

          "And wasn’t that a year! Half the ton was having fits over Mama’s marriage to a commoner. A merchant, no less. And then the announcement from the Court that Rhys was made Baronet and would be entitled to call himself Sir Rhys Williams, Bt. Not that Mama cared. She told me she had discharged her duties to see me settled as Whithorn, and she was looking forward to being a common Cardiff housewife. The title only made her laugh and write a long letter to Jack and Ianto accusing them of stage managing everyone’s lives.”

          Marianna sipped her tea. “They did, you know. Doctor Harper swore to the end of his days that his appointment to the medical school in Glasgow and his marriage to the Lady Toshiko were all of Jack’s doing.”

          “And Jack would retort that it was all Lady Toshiko’s idea and he was just following orders.” Cameron laughed, and then turned serious. “I think Jack wanted them as safe as he could make them. They did not fit into our society, but neither would they have fitted into Japanese society. This way they were always within reach of a family member.”

          Caroline picked up her embroidery again and resumed stitching. “It is too bad they only had Grace Margaret. Although considering the decryption work Lady Toshiko did for the government, more children might have been difficult to manage.” She gave Marianna a startled look. “It’s odd. I’ve never thought about it before, but we are not a very normal family by ton standards, are we?”

          Cameron and Marianna laughed until they were gasping.

          “Not very much, no,” Cameron finally managed to get some words out. “Under other circumstances, we would probably be unceremoniously dropped from the rolls. But we’re part of a legend, and that confers on us a sort of aura. How the government thought the whole story could be kept under wraps is beyond me. In two more generations it will all be forgotten.”

          “Well,” Caroline said commonsensically, “it also helps that we seem to marry within our own circles, more or less. Our Jack married Rhiannon Carstairs’s oldest, then Edmund married her next one, and Andrew the youngest. Young Ianto married Grace Margaret, who, although not family, we knew from the cradle. We appear in society only as we need to, and lately that is less and less.”

          “Even if it had happened otherwise, I would not have regretted it.” Marianna said. “I remember the whispers and snide comments about mother’s marriage, but it was all for the best. Rhys turned out to be a wonderful husband, step-papa and grandfather. My Ianto loved him from the day he was born. I wasn’t surprised when he decided to follow his grandfather’s footsteps and join the family business.”

          “Were you surprised when Jack asked to adopt Edmund?” Caroline asked.

          “Not really. Edmund was a Harkness to his toes, the same way Andrew was his father all over again. From the first time Andy and I took them to Asturias Edmund was enthralled. It was almost as if the place had seized his heart. Loved to spend vacations there or at the island. Spoke Spanish and Arabic fluently by the time he was twelve. He was a Monte Cristo long before it became formal.” She sighed. “He wants me to visit next summer. I think I shall take him up on it.”

          “We might all descend on them, like a royal procession,” Caroline giggled. “It would amuse him.”

          Cameron kissed her hand. “We could. Now that Jack has taken over the reins of managing the estate, and he is safely married and possessed of heirs…”

          “Possessed of heirs!” Marianna laughed. “You are proud as a peacock of your grandsons.”

          “Indeed I am. But, the point I wanted to make, sister dear, is that we are no longer essential. The next generation is safely here. There are Harknesses at Whithorn and Davidsons at Stratton Heath. And there is a Count of Monte Cristo.”

          Caroline smiled at them. “ _A_ Count, yes, but…call me a romantic if you will, but I think someday, in the future, someone will discover the story and retell it to their generation. Not only the adventure, but the romance, without pretence or euphemisms. And for them, Uncle Jack will always be _the_ Count of Monte Cristo.”

 


End file.
